


The Empty Bed

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, As you wish, BAMF, Child Death, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Secret Missions, Story: The Adventure of the Dying Detective, Story: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Suspense, casefic, double bluffs, how to fix the Mary problem, international espionage, johnlock advent calendar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 135
Words: 50,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Work is now complete. </p><p>Major props to tumblr user @fortheloveofjawn who is an encouragement to me.</p><p>Thanks to Mellyanna for the Czech culture & language assistance.</p><p> </p><p>Story starts after John and Sherlock confront Mary about her attempt to murder Sherlock.  John and Mycroft work together to deal with her, while John and Sherlock work through their feelings. The story ebbs and flows between the difficult love story of John and Sherlock, and their dealings with the assassin known as Mary Watson (Morstan). </p><p> </p><p>Timeline: During and post season 3 (His Last Vow)</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CONNI4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CONNI4/gifts).



John grabs onto Sherlock, lowering him, gingerly, carefully, into the arms of the emergency staff. 

As Sherlock tells John "You can trust her," Sherlock blinks. He blinks, as John has seen soldiers do, "S.O.S." Three short blinks, three long blinks, three short blinks. The same signal John gave Sherlock at the pool with Moriarty. The room suddenly fills with chlorine, his clothes are hot with a coat and explosives, and his vision narrows to just Sherlock's eyes and face. He's pleading, reaching. 

"I'm going with him," John yells over his shoulder at Mary. Sherlock relaxes, the signaling stops; he closes his eyes now, leaning back into the staff's arms. They put him on a stretcher, folded up so his legs are tucked, and begin the awkward navigation down the stairs. John clenches and unclenches his left fist as he walks past Mary, walking as far away from her as the room and space will allow. He is as close to Sherlock as he can possibly get, and one of the men in the bright green coats has to gently push him on the shoulder to get some more room to turn the gurney. John rubs his eyes tiredly, how many times, Jesus....

"Do you..." Mary starts. 

"No," John says, beginning the march down the seventeen steps to the landing, "Please be gone when we return." The 'we', John clips, punctuates, mostly for Sherlock's benefit. He wants to hold Sherlock's coatsleeve, his pantcuff, his shoe, anything, but everyone is in the way. John looks at Sherlock, Sherlock's eyes are cloudy, but they do not break eye contact. All the way, the bumping, whirling ride to hospital (Jesus, how many times...) they cannot touch, but they keep their eyes on one another, hardly blinking. It is electric focus, no one questions John's entrance into the ambulance. They are together, their eyes communicate, they do not lose each other. Their eyes tether each other; holding hands while running handcuffed, pulling one from a burning pyre, choosing each other over all else. 

"Sorry, I am so sorry," is all John whispers as he jumps out of the ambulance, his bones jarred against the pavement, the shock of the small jump all the way up from the balls of his feet to his hips. He feels Sherlock reach and grab his wrist, feeling his pulse, his skin, just shaking his head. They do not break the tether of their eyes. 

Too many hospitals and machines, beeping, the stress of leaving too soon and running and staging the big reveal of his lying, cheating wife. The blood, agony, pale face of Sherlock and all he can do is look into his face and his eyes and watch. No one questions him. Sherlock refuses morphine. John sits next to him, they are as close as they can be, with wires and machines in the way. Sherlock doesn't want John to misunderstand. He wants his words clear. His intentions understood. 

"John," Sherlock says, "Thank you...."

They are suddenly talking all at once, John starting, Sherlock starting, but they stop. Their words are all over one another, "I'm sorry...if I would've known....I waited, as long as I could....I waited," Their breath and words mingle, it's unsure who is speaking, who has started, who has ended the conversation. They still are not touching. They are close, eyes close, never breaking contact. 

"I know," John finally says, "I know." The doctor comes in, a young man who is bright, and cheery, and who has never grieved a day in his life. Sherlock will hate him, tear him to pieces, but surprisingly Sherlock is silent. John finally squeezes Sherlock's hand, tells him "I'll go out and make a call, update Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock knows, he's calling Mycroft. He doesn't argue. The doctor begins prattling, a nurse enters with morphine, and John leaves Sherlock for a few moments. He clenches his jaw as he enters the hallway, calling Mycroft, formulating how he's going to begin his battle plan.


	2. Chapter 2

John exhales through his nose, breathes in through his mouth, for a few moments. Just outside of Sherlock's hospital room. (Jesus, Christ....how many times has he waited outside a hospital room for Sherlock.)

"Mycroft..." John whispers into the phone as he hears the ringing stop. The two men are on the phone with each other, silent for a few moments, just listening to each other breathe. John knows Mycroft, respects him as the only other person who gets Sherlock, who understands the pit in their stomach when something goes wrong. Mycroft has been purposely absent during Sherlock's shooting, staying away during the first hospitalization. Mycroft explained that he had to help Sherlock "In other ways." This was before he knew the shooter was Mary...Jesus. The mother of his child. His wife. He can hear footsteps echoing in the phone, and he can hear steps behind him. Mycroft, in his infinite wisdom, followed them? Knew they were coming? He is suddenly behind John, grabbing his shoulder, John on adrenaline almost knocks Mycroft to the ground with a swift spin of an elbow to the throat. 

"Doctor." is all Mycroft says, putting his phone in his pocket. His eyes search up and down John, deducting, same as his younger brother does. There is no affection, just a sag of shoulders, both worried, both tired. John lowers the elbow, nods his head. No apology.

"Mary shot him," John says, no hello, no start. Mycroft and he always get right to the point when discussing Sherlock. As before, everything moves so fast, they've always gotten to the point: "he took drugs and I found him in a drug house. Please come to the flat."

John's palms are sweaty and itchy, he wipes them on his pant legs, "Mycroft, I need a battle plan. I can't watch, I can't...."

Mycroft is continuing to read John's face, or his clothing, or the way he's holding his lips in a tight, gray line. Perhaps he's looking at his hair sticking up at all angles, or the wrinkles in his clothes. John just stands, ready for orders. He's ready for war. He almost feels his gun in the small of his back, his hands itching for it, but he stands still, waiting. Mycroft needs to call this, John isn't thinking straight. He knows enough to understand that this is a danger area for him. He hurt and missed.....so he married out of duty for something he started. But he would have waited, if he had any idea. His allegiance is clear. 

"We may need to not show our hand to her, just yet," Mycroft answers, slowly, weighing each word, "If she knows at all, and loved you, she would not have shot him. You may have some time with Sherlock to let things cool off..."

"Yes..." John knows, understands what Mycroft is going to say. John is ill. This will be worse, this will be worse. 

"The timing will need to be right. You may need to string her along, to let her think there is a chance...for you two to reconcile. To give me time to work. Stay with Sherlock for now, but there may be a time...you may need her to believe you are forgiving her."

"Sherlock?" John's hands are sweating, his ears are red. God, he just wants a drink, to go home. 

"You know the answer to that question." Mycroft pulls his phone back out, "I have some leads to follow. Get him home, give him my love. Keep this between the two of us. I will come by later. They won't keep him too long. I will double surveillance."

"Thank you," John wipes his hands, again, and holds out his hand to shake Mycroft's. Mycroft uses both of his hands, moves in closely to John, and in a whisper, "You understand, don't you? Everything Sherlock has done, was for you?" John doesn't answer; Mycroft spins on his heels and walks away. Before John returns to Sherlock's hospital room he realizes Mycroft wasn't carrying his umbrella.


	3. Chapter 3

John returns to Sherlock's hospital room, shutting the door quietly behind him. John stops at the end of the bed, his eyes searching Sherlock's face. His palms are dry, his fingers relaxed, his breathing a little fast but his shoulders have settled. John rubs Sherlock's foot. He grabs another blanket from the end of the other bed. He tucks around Sherlock's feet, rubbing his ankles. He unfolds the blanket, up and over Sherlock, touching his calves, his thighs, his stomach, his chest, his neck as he unfolds the blanket over him. He tucks Sherlock's arms in, under the blanket, wrapping him in tight in both layers. Sherlock begins to shiver, teeth knocking together. John sits on the edge of the bed, continuing to rub both his arms, his legs. 

"John." 

"Sherlock?" John tilts his head slightly to the right. He smiles to himself, imagining that he must look ridiculous, rubbing Sherlock like this, tilting his head like a dog tuned to its owners voice, "I'm here."

"Are you?" Sherlock's eyes are moving quickly, but his lids are slowly pulling down, and up, in a slow rhythm, slow as his chest raising and falling. John is subconsciously reading his eyes for Morse code, then remembers he is safe. It is just the two of them. If they are willing, they can speak freely. 

"Yes," He stops rubbing Sherlock, his shivering has subsided, "I am here, I will be going home with you. I'm sorry. Did you know?"

Sherlock is asleep. 

John pulls himself over, ghosts a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, moving his curls out of the way with the exhale, "Sleep well." He sits down in the chair beside the bed, rubbing Sherlock's arm one more time. He tucks his head on his chin, watches the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. He remembers the guilt and sorrow of watching Sherlock right after he was shot, staying the night and waiting and praying that he would live.

Tonight is sweeter, even in the worry. There is no guilt in watching Sherlock's face, touching his hand, moving his curls from his forehead. He watches Sherlock toss and turn slightly, muttering in soft tones; nothing that's understood. John knows that if he would let himself sleep it would be the same sleep he had after he shot the Cabbie; remarkably calm and surprised at the absence of guilt. No matter the opinion of anyone else, the decision was the correct one. He watches Sherlock sleep until sunlight slowly fills the room, until Sherlock wakes asking for John and a glass of water.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock has been home for two days; John is practicing acting, keeping his mind and his facial expressions quiet and neutral. He knew, meeting Mycroft, what he would say. That John would need to stay out of the plans. John was not good at lying, at covert operations, especially when it came to Sherlock, or Mary. He was volatile, open, easily read. John's stomach churned as he waited for Mycroft, looking out the window at the cabs and the pedestrians. He swirled his coffee cup, his jaw clenching, his eyes watering from too little sleep. Mycroft comes in the cafe: three piece suit, put out expression, umbrella. He slides in the booth across from John. John thinks of the conversation regarding Irene's 'death' and what deductions can be made of Sherlock's heart, and his childhood desire to be a pirate. 

"You won't shut me out-" Again, rapid fire. No time for niceties. 

"I won't have to. I know your acting skills are not as strong, as my brother's," Mycroft waves the waiter away as he approaches the table, "You only have to keep Sherlock away from what we're doing for a while, then we will let him in. But not yet."

"How will I hide this from Sherlock?" John turns up an eyebrow. 

"Really, John. What can you provide that can preoccupy him, that can get him to assume your on edge behavior has nothing to do with Mary, or anything else we're doing? What could explain clandestine meetings just the two of us, if he deducts it? Something big, something that's been brewing for a long time. Something that is so close to the truth, that is the truth, and we will hide behind it." 

John blinks, looks down at his coffee, "I won't lie to him. I won't tell him anything that isn't true. He doesn't deserve that."

Mycroft huffs, "Are you telling me this isn't true? Now that you're free to reveal yourself, you won't?"

"No, but I won't do it just to keep him from guessing..."

"John, this is his life. We have to work, and we have to keep him away, this is not some bloody romance novel. This is eventual, you and he, but we need to use it now. You cannot hide your feelings, you aren't good at hiding your feelings anyway, let's use them. It's still true. I'm just forcing your hand to do it today. Starting today. To cover the nerves, to cover our meetings, to cover our plans. If you cannot do this, we might as well not bother-"

"No, no. Let's review the plans."

John suddenly smells Claire de Lune, thinks of Sherlock, bleeding on the floor, Magnussen mocking him, "he got shot." He listens and repeats back the plan to Mycroft, as he is a Captain, used to giving orders, taking orders. 

He remembers, as he rubs his hands on the cool table, cracking his knuckles, the feeling of Sherlock's cheeks turning cold, his color graying as he waits an eternity for emergency services. He is a doctor, a doctor that went to war. He understands now why Mycroft was Sherlock's confidant when he decided to jump off the building and survive. He imagines this is the feeling, peeking over the edge, but trusting implicitly that the older Holmes brother will be ready to put all the pieces into place.


	5. Chapter 5

John returns to the flat, Sherlock has texted him in his ridiculous fashion: _Gone to the morgue, be back in one hour. SH_

He shakes off Mycroft's discussion, rubs his face, decides to shower. As he dries his hair, he looks in the mirror, remembering Sherlock's request when they confronted Mary at Lanister Gardens, "Please, John, sit here, with my coat, next to this bottle of saline, and muss your hair up. We need to confront the person who shot me." At first, when Mary walked in, and was talking to Sherlock, he didn't understand. She was Mary, but not Mary. Her voice was sharp, her spine straight, no hint of her normal smile or slight slouch in her shoulders. She was a sharp shooter; he never was angrier when he saw her shoot and then she made Sherlock, in so much pain, bend over to pick up the coin. 

John almost jumped up, wanting to tackle her, shake her; his wife, his child, be damned. Sherlock had been shot, he was hurting, and the insult, her kicking the coin at him, like he was worthless, pushing him to pick it up. He was ashamed of his feelings, this was the love of his life, but Sherlock, God. He thought he'd made the right decision. His anger was self directed. If he'd held out a little longer. If he'd waited a little longer. If there had been a sign. 

He dried off, dressed in shorts and a T-Shirt, then decided to take off the T-Shirt. He debated what to do next. Sherlock wouldn't be back for a while, he didn't have anything particular to do, didn't feel like doing much. 

Another text. _Are you ready to talk? Please? For the baby's sake?_ John muttered out loud, "Already with the fucking guilt." He turned just right to see Sherlock's room, and his door open just a crack. He thought of Mycroft, and the inevitable just being moved forward, so he went into Sherlock's room and climbed under the covers. He turned on his side, on the left side of the bed, turned so he faced the door. He didn't intend to sleep; he intended to wait for Sherlock to come home so they could talk, or not talk, however they decided to communicate. "Inevitable," He mutters, his eyelids closing, no matter how hard he tried to keep them open.


	6. Chapter 6

John dreams of rain, and the wind. He doesn't dream of the desert. 

He feels a swooosh, a pulling, as his arm is pulled down, dangling off the edge of the bed, he feels it being pulled, and held. (Is that a cheek? A hand? A face? A kiss?) His mind begins to climb up from the pits of slumber, bits and pieces begin to fall together. He sees, sitting on the floor, Sherlock with his legs spread out in front of him. He is holding onto John's arm, crying. (Crying?) John doesn't fully understand why or what is going on, he mumbles into Sherlock's hair, his ear. 

"Sherlock, Sh'lock, what is wrong?" 

"I thought you'd gone," Sherlock isn't crying, but his voice, the way he's holding on to John's arm, Jesus. 

"No, I'm here. I just decided to sleep-"

"I didn't think you'd be in here. You weren't answering your phone, I looked everywhere. I smelled your shampoo..."

"Wait, you found me by my shampoo?"

Sherlock looks down, barely at a whisper, "Is that not good?"

John's heart aches, "Oh Sherlock, I am so sorry." He kisses his temple, his fingers in his hair, "Oh, Sherlock," John thinks of the plan for Mycroft. Today. He must make the inevitable happen today. "Sherlock, come up here, please."

"No, I don't want to bother you..."

"For God's sake, you're on the floor, I've taken your bed, come here." 

Sherlock gets up, all legs, arms, crosses down to the end of the bed, is unsure. John gets on his knees, reaches, urges Sherlock to get in the bed with a pull on his wrist. 

"You will sit here by me," John arranges him, Sherlock is quiet, as John takes off his jacket, his shirt, and they are both undressed from the waist up. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, they hold one another, quiet, not speaking. John rubs Sherlock's arms, rubs the back of his neck, draws circles with his fingers over his ribcage. 

Sherlock breaks the silence, "What did you discuss with my brother today?"


	7. Chapter 7

Keep it close to the truth, surround it with truth. Only lies have details. 

"You." John breathed, kissing Sherlock's bicep, rubbing his arms. They are both warm, Sherlock still clad in his dress pants. John tugs at Sherlock's belt, "Please, stay, we need to talk. There is a lot to say." Sherlock's eyes widen, John feels his fingers dig in slightly to his bicep. "No, no. Just talk. I just want to feel you. Close."

Sherlock looks at him, the wide, adoring, open look he's given him only a handful of times. When he commanded the room to move to save the Bloody Guardsman. The first time he told Sherlock he was brilliant in front of other people. When Sherlock first caught John's eyes at the pool after being captured by Moriarty. With an orange blanket over his shoulders, as Sherlock realized John was the sharpshooter who took out the cabbie, catching John's eyes across the car park. 

John hopes his face bears similar sentiment, that Sherlock understands, the sorrow of too much time gone by, of almost missing chances.

"You're here?" Sherlock's voice is cracking as he leaves the bed, strips down to his boxers, and returns to bed; both now under the covers. They hold onto one another, as if they are drowning, grabbing each other for buoyancy.


	8. Chapter 8

John keeps his head down, murmuring, whispering. He feels, knows, Sherlock's breath is speeding up, more ragged. There is guilt, but he pushes it down. He wants to ask Sherlock if he will act like he did with Janine, with Irene; love and forget. Use and move on. 

John wants to ask but it feels too close to his actions. He knows it's not "human error." It's what he's wanted and couldn't say, couldn't bring himself to say, and he's saying it now. Keep the nerves and heartbeat and clandestine meetings easily explainable. 

"Sherlock...do you want..."

They've started, talking at once, both starting, stopping, tripping over words. 

"John...John please..." 

They hold each other, move slowly until they are bare chest to bare chest, rubbing hands over each other in lazy circles. The touches are small and infrequent compared to the words; fragments and stops and starts, low and whispered for only each other. 

"I felt like I had to stay, but I couldn't stay, after she....I couldn't take watching you leave me again..."

"John, John." Sherlock kisses John, pecks and kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, he takes his hand and kisses the inside of his palm. John rubs Shelock's lips and cheek with his thumb, and they slip down into the bed, facing each other, winding around each other.

They talk, and touch, both timid and amazed that the other is allowing this. They are unsure if they are more amazed at the words or the gentle presses against skin, the quietness and the joy of simply being together. John strokes Sherlock's hair, rubbing thumbs down his jaw and cheeks. Sherlock takes his hand and with long, slender fingers wraps John's neck, pulling him into a deep kiss. 

They do not fully undress, but they have exposed one another; they have made clear their heart's desire. They wrap each other's fingers into both their hands, and stare at one another, quiet, intense. John rubs Sherlock's hair down one more time "We will talk more tomorrow," but for another hour, they stare into each other's faces, until John sleeps, then Sherlock moments later.


	9. Chapter 9

As morning streams in the windows, John considers his next action. He wants to kiss, stroke, pull him so close. He's hardly remembered what it's like to have sex with a man; heated and angrier than sex with most women. 

Looking over Sherlock, still turned towards him when they fell asleep locked into each other's eyes, he decides he will be slow, tender, the same he always imagined. He raises from the bed, Sherlock mumbles and reaches for John. 

"Shh, go back to sleep, I need to take care of something." John dresses, shaking out his nerves in order to take two cabs and a bus to meet Mycroft. 

John texts Shelock a message so he won't worry "Sleep well, sweet prince. I will be home soon."


	10. Chapter 10

John met Mycroft out in the park near St. Bart's; the same park where Mike Stamford stopped him to talk to him, and where the events of meeting his eccentric roommate first began. They decided not to meet at Mycroft's office; that would tip off, if Sherlock deduced it, that there were business dealings. They were chatting. John was nervous about his relationship with Sherlock. Mycroft worries about him constantly. All true. 

They sit on a bench. The breeze is warm, but comfortable. "The problem, and brilliance, of my brother is that he thinks everyone else is an idiot. He will not consider that you and I will conspire to take down Mary and Magnussen. He assumes I am far too stupid to stay one step ahead of him. And with him distracted," Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John, John coughs, "with what he's wished for all these years, I believe we can move our plan forward with an execution date of Christmas."

"Christmas?" John clenches his fist, rubs his fingers in a splay across his thigh. 

"Yes, before the baby is supposed to be born. We've got to run two scenarios, one if she is pregnant and one if she is not."

John's field of vision narrows to a small, pinprick of light in front of him. He must remind himself to breathe. 

"John, Sherlock deduced she was pregnant by the signs she gave him, correct? So it's possible she gave him the information she wanted him to see. She is a nurse and you are a doctor. Would something like that pass you by?"

John sits, the breeze moving across his face, he opens his mouth but he can't think of anything to say. The normally impatient Holmes brother allows him to sit a moment, to process. Mycroft begins again. 

"We must let the world think Sherlock is back in the hospital. Let him think he's running his plans, the hospital will be a cover for him to stay safe from Mary. We can persuade him to move in a direction, while helping him in what he believes are his choices."

"I don't want to manipulate him, Mycroft."

"He loves you, John. More fiercely than anyone or anything I've seen. We are not manipulating. We are redirecting energy so it doesn't tear him apart."

John remembers the conversation with Sherlock, years ago: his brain was a locomotive, shaking, hurling off the tracks. For love, for John, how vicious could Sherlock be? To himself, to those near him?

"Ok. Let's discuss the first couple of scenarios. Then I need to get back."


	11. Chapter 11

John returns to the flat. He's deciding, carefully, how to broach the subject. How to bring it, well, everything up. The hiding in plain sight with a hospitalization, keeping Mary at a distance but still believing they trust her; John knows he has to keep himself together and not misspeak or misstep. He has rehearsed his words with Mycroft, but they ended up dissolving into giggles at one point, (the two brothers really are alike, John thought.) 

"For God's sake, John, if you get flustered just....just distract him." 

John turned red, they laughed until they cried. 

His sides still hurting, John walks up the steps, just a few days ago Sherlock was being carried down. He enters the flat and can hear the painful sound of the song Sherlock had written for Irene, when he was grieving her. 

John, who has never interrupted Sherlock's playing, can't help himself, "Why are you playing the song you wrote for Irene?"

Sherlock stops, turns around, face completely blank, then his eyebrows slowly come together, "I didn't write it for her."

"But, when you were upset, about the phone..."

"I wrote it for you, John, when I knew I loved you. When I thought you might love me back when you wouldn't lie to me about Irene. When you told her that you would tell me she was back, and you still wouldn't help her. I wrote it for you."

John crosses, slowly, to Sherlock and puts his hands up to his face. As John reaches up, Sherlock gently places the violin on his chair. They have stared, these two days, at each other so much, but it's not enough. 

John looks at Sherlock, searching, then pulls him in. Their lips rub, nipping, gently, at each other's, the only bodily contact John's hands on Sherlock's face. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and back as they dip backwards just slightly, so Sherlock can kiss more deeply, wrapping his arms around John, pulling him to him, nearly every part touching from shoulders to shins.


	12. Chapter 12

John pulls back slightly, to look in his eyes again. He wonders, as he delves deeply into the green and blue, how it had happened all at once, but had been happening all this time. 

John remembers feeling so angry, betrayed, hurt when Sherlock returned. He'd waited as long as he could, and now when he'd moved on, Sherlock had reappeared. 

The anger had dissipated when he'd been pulled from the burning pyre and it was Sherlock's hands on his face, calling his name, looking in his eyes. He didn't see Mary, really, just Sherlock; he knew then, #johnwatsonloves - but he felt a pull, an obligation, to do what normal people do. 

Now, normal is Sherlock taking his face again, pulling it close, kissing him deeply. John can smell the burning cedars and old timbers, feel sparks, the smell and feel of Sherlock's warm gloves upon his face. They are both grabbing, touching, breathing into each other's mouths as they move and pull one another to Sherlock's bedroom. The covers are still down turned from where they slept the night before. 

"Sherlock," John whispers as he falls on the bed, tangling and pulling the detective with him. He's leading Sherlock this time; the man has hardly blinked or spoken. John falls on the right of the bed, Sherlock on the left. John bites his lip thinking of how the two of them slept on these sides at the bottom of the stairs on The Stag Night. 

He wonders if he would have kissed him then, as he's doing now. If Sherlock would have opened his mouth, grabbing his back, his buttocks, his thighs, roaming over every bit of him. Would he have pulled their shirts off, as they are doing now? Or would he have stopped himself? They are wild eyed, breathing ragged and heavy, as John moves close to Sherlock. 

"I have to keep you safe," John pulls at Sherlock's clothes, desperate, his boxers pulled down and Sherlock's cock now released, "I have to keep you safe from her." John whispers in his ear, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock, grinding himself against him, as Sherlock pulls against John's clothes and strips him. They lay naked, grabbing and kissing, Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John, pulling and pushing him from tip to balls, moving rhythmically. 

"Oh Lord, Jesus, Sherlock," John looks in his eyes, terrified, as he's been so quiet. Sherlock's eyes are slightly misty, but he pulls on John as John pulls back. Sherlock kisses John, whispering, "Keep me, please keep me, stay," and he kisses John's jawline, his neck, his chest. 

They are in a rhythm now, their erections and fingers and hips all bumping into each other, never losing eye contact, kissing and breathing heat into each other's mouths. John releases and shudders into Sherlock and Sherlock grabs him tightly, burrowing into his neck, grabbing his bicep, as John uses both hands on Sherlock in earnest. 

Sherlock comes, a cry of John's name, and they grab one another so tightly. John rubs Sherlock's back in lazy circles as he cries lightly into John's shoulder, "I never thought...I waited."

"I know. I know. I didn't understand."

"From the start..."

"I know."


	13. Chapter 13

John wakes around 3 a.m. He is sticky, warm, and Sherlock is wrapped around him. He untangles himself, slowly, kissing his temple, his jaw as he pulls away. It's cold on his feet, his thighs, his stomach as he goes to the bathroom for a flannel. He washes himself, smiling at the mess on himself, remembering how desperate they were to kiss and touch one another. 

He brings the flannel to Sherlock, kissing him awake, pecking kisses against his chest, his neck, jaw. 

"Ssshh, my dear, let me clean you off." John wipes Sherlock's stomach as he moans slightly, his body shivering at John's touch as he cleans him. John grows hard as he watches Sherlock's entire body curl towards John's touches, as he imagines cleaning Sherlock in a bath or a shower. 

For now, he is content to kiss Sherlock gently, wiping him gently with the flannel. When they're clean, he moves his body close again so they are wrapped together; Sherlock's leg wrapped around John's calf, John's arm wrapped around Sherlock, fingers dipping to stroke the curve of his back and his buttocks. 

"Hmmm," Sherlock breathes into John's hair, "How will you keep me safe?" 

John has had conversations with Sherlock in the back of cabs, at crime scenes, at Buckingham palace in a sheet, while Sherlock was unconscious in a hospital bed. Now, Sherlock is his lover, his best friend, and they are whispering to each other in between kisses and stroking touches. Sherlock had taken up so much of his days, and nights, and thoughts, but it was never enough. It feels lovely and whole to whisper and talk to him, just the two of them, against the rest of the world. 

"Sherlock," John tugs gently on Sherlock's curls, kissing the corner of his mouth, "I will do whatever it takes. Whatever I need," John rubs his thumb, his fingers against Sherlock's collarbone, "I have some ideas, but I will do what I need for you to be safe."

"Please," Sherlock whimpers, "Let me hold you, tighter." They pull into one another's arms. John puts his head on Sherlock's chest, and they sleep until sunlight streams in the window.


	14. Chapter 14

John is awake for the day at 6 a.m.; he had let Sherlock stay in bed. His mind is going in a million different directions as he sits at the table by the outside windows. He looked up at the silly plastic cow's skull on the wall above him. It was, well, silly. No other way to describe it. Why had Sherlock thought to put something like that on the wall? For fun, maybe? To be ironic? 

He turns his cup of tea, holding it in both hands, warming them, thinking of how in he and Mary's apartment there were hardly any books, no wallpaper, no bullet holes, no spray painted smiles. 

John knows he didn't have Sherlock's clever and quick mind, but he wonders if this was a bit of what Sherlock felt like. Moving people like chess pieces around in his mind, replaying their actions and their counter actions. How to keep everyone safe. How to tell Sherlock, when it's all over, how to explain that they did it to keep him safe from Mary. And Magnussen. 

The code phrase Mycroft would give John when the situation was contained, when it was close to being wrapped, would be Sherlock's full given name. 

John texts Mary as he heard Sherlock rustling in the bedroom. "Let's meet at a cafe. To talk for a bit." He shuts the phone, put it back in his pocket. Sherlock is padding over to him, wrapped only in a sheet. John is giggling, but didn't get up. 

"Come here," John says, patting his lap. 

Sherlock crinkles his brow, "I'll squash you."

"No, I'm stronger than I look," Sherlock gingerly sits on John's lap as John pushes the chair away from the table to make room. John hugs him tight, kissing at his arms and neck.

"Sherlock," 

"Hmmm,"

"I'm going to talk with Mary..." John feels Sherlock tense and try to get up, "Wait, wait. Let me explain. I love you. I am seeing her, in a public place, because I think she's more dangerous without hope. I want you to be safe. I'd like to tell her you're still at hospital, and hide you somewhere. Maybe in a town with a rehab hospital?" John keeps his head down, kissing Sherlock, rubbing circles into his ribs. 

"John, tell me that again,"

"I'm seeing her again.."

"No, no." Sherlock grabs his face, the sheet slipping down to his waist, "Tell me you love me again," John is amazed at the open and wonderful look of joy on Sherlock's face. 

He bumps the table grabbing him and kissing him, "I love you, I love you.."

John panics feeling wetness all over him, Sherlock pulls away, giving him an odd look. Sherlock looks behind him, the tea cup has spilled over the table, on Sherlock's sheet, and on John. 

"John, you've ruined my sheet," Sherlock laments, starting to stand. 

John grabs him, pulling the sheet completely away, wiping the tea with the sheet as he pulls it off of Sherlock. 

"Won't be the last time."


	15. Chapter 15

John kisses Sherlock and strokes his hair, murmuring that he loves him, that he is only leaving to see Mary to protect him. Sherlock, in a petulant act of defiance, is sitting on the couch, completely naked. He will not get dressed, no matter how much John cajoles him. 

"What if Mrs. Hudson walks in?"

"Don't care."

"Lestrade?"

Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders. 

"Mycroft?" John teases, pecking Sherlock on the nose. 

"Oh for God's sakes," Sherlock huffs off, and changes into one of his impeccable outfits. John comes to stand in the doorway between his bedroom and the hallway, cocking his hip and crossing his arms and right foot over the left. 

"I mean every word, Sherlock," John stares at him intently. Sherlock looks back at him, as he is buttoning up his white shirt, tucking it into his black pants, "I love you. We need to placate her, and get you away from her. I can't live -"

The detective, his shirt half buttoned, doesn't let John finish. He crosses the room, takes John in a kiss, hands on either side of his face. "I know. I know. I trust you. Should I wait for you here?"

"Yes," John tells him, buttoning up the rest of Sherlock's shirt, touching his neck and collarbone when he's done, "I will be back in 2 hours, tops. I will tell her I want to work it out for the baby, but you are really sick. Ok?"

Sherlock nods. John leaves, exhaling only when he is outside their door, on the landing. He waits until he is a block away before texting Mycroft's locked cell phone one word: "sutures."


	16. Chapter 16

John hails a cab (it always takes longer without Sherlock's long arms) and criss crosses through alleys to the cafe. He doesn't see Sherlock following him, but he doesn't want to take that risk. Mycroft meets him at the door behind the cafe, near the bins; he's wearing dress down clothes and a hat obscuring his face. John would laugh if it weren't so serious. 

"Did my brother take to the idea?" Mycroft looks up at him from under his eyelashes.

"Yes. I am doing my best to reassure him...that I love him, and it's to protect him."

Mycroft tilts his head and looks at John, his pupils narrow, "Which is true."

"Yes, how could you ask-"

"I just worry. I just want to be sure. She's manipulative."

"Clearly." John rubs his jaw, runs his hands through his hair, "the hardest part of this plan will be staying apart from Sherlock, Mycroft, and faking trying to work on my marriage." John punctuates marriage with a scowl; the word leaving a bad taste in his mouth. 

"John," Mycroft moves close to John, putting his hand on his shoulder. For a moment John is afraid they both may burst into tears, "The Sherlock before you and the one after you are so different."

"Mycroft, the same can be said of me. Trust me. I will do whatever it takes. I won't survive otherwise."

Mycroft turns on his heel and leaves John. He takes a moment to watch Mycroft walk around the corner, then he walks the other way to the front door of the cafe. As he rounds the corner, he pulls on his cheeks, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

The over-the-door bell dings as he enters. His senses feel razor sharp from the adrenaline and the lack of sleep. A woman with a baby in the corner, a waiter balancing a tray of food for a table of eight, and his lying, cheating wife. 

Mary doesn't wave, doesn't smile. She stares straight ahead, and he wonders if she's even seen him. Her jaw tightens, so he knows she sees him. He slips in across the table from her. He waits to see if she will talk. She stares. Jesus. 

"What do you want from me?" He begins. He thinks of Sherlock's hands on his ribs, his mouth, his fingers across his jaw. Love must be his vicious motivator. 

She looks up, rolling her eyes up, (God he hates that look), "Did you read it?"

"I'm not discussing this right now. What do you want from me?"

"I'm not discussing anything until you tell me whether you read it or not."

John doesn't have to fake or act exasperated. Jesus. He looks down at the table, then slams his palm down on the table. He's startled a young man at the table next to them. 

"You answer me. What do you want? Sherlock is bleeding, back in the hospital. What do you want? What are you playing at?"

"Did you read it?"

John stands up, kicks his chair (away from other patrons) to the wall. It cracks. He marches away, his spine solider-straight, throwing cash at the hostess. 

He marches outside, keeps marching for three blocks, his arms and legs pumping. He zigs and zags, ensuring he's alone. Before hailing a cab, He huddles against a wall, texts Mycroft, one word, "needles."


	17. Chapter 17

John makes sure he is calm before he returns to Baker Street. He considers rehearsing his words to Sherlock, but he wants to tell him in the moment. He doesn't want lies between them. John feels guilt gnawing at him, but he reminds himself; these are not lies. These are omissions. These are decisions he and Mycroft are making to keep Sherlock safe. 

It took a while to believe the depth of Mary's deception and her motives; but rehearsing the plan with Mycroft soothed his nerves. It was as comfortable as marching orders in Afghanistan sand, as exhilarating as running by Sherlock's side in the dead of night. 

At Mycroft and John's first meeting he'd asked John, "Why would Mary have just happened to come to shoot Magnussen the night you and John were there? Why did she shoot Sherlock, and not Magnussen? Her intent was to kill him, not Magnussen. Who is she working for?"

John and Mycroft were no closer to the answer, but he knew the next step was getting Sherlock safe. He nodded at the agent, Mycroft's man, sent to guard the block. He started up the stairs, but halfway up, he heard the door open, and Sherlock came bounding down. 

Sherlock grabs him, hugs him tightly, kissed him; using his tongue and teeth. His face was wet and slippery, John pulls back, leaning against the wall. Sherlock looks so much younger than his years. 

"Sherlock, you've been crying."

John would never remember feeling so heartbroken. Sherlock begins to sob, and could hardly get his words to form. 

"I was worried....that you'd go back....I was trying not to text....I trust you..I was scared."

(Sociopath my ass) John thought as he pulls his sleeve down over his hand, using his shirt cuff to gently wipe away Sherlock's tears. John kisses him gently, "My sweet prince, I love you." He searches his gorgeous blue/ green eyes, wondering at who made him so insecure. 

His heart hurts, wondering if years of their wanting each other, but not acting on it, had done this to each other. "Sherlock," As he wipes away more tears, "Let me take you to bed, if you'll let me? I love you. I want to be only yours." 

Sherlock, still looking so young, so doe eyed, lets John guide him back into their flat, into Sherlock's bedroom.


	18. Chapter 18

John didn't feel this anticipation with anyone before; not Mary, not any past boyfriends or girlfriends. He winds his fingers through Sherlock's, listening to his hiccuping cries slow and recede. He leads Sherlock to the bed, sits him down on it, and kneels in front of him, on both knees. He takes Sherlock's hands in his, moving them against his own face, kissing his finger tips. 

John remembers how when he proposed to Mary he never got down on one knee, how he was terribly nervous and could hardly speak. Now, he feels as if he could say anything, and Sherlock would understand. Every look and every touch, they'd known each other so well, so intimately, it was just now more intense. 

"Sherlock." John says softly, his hands now on Sherlock's face, roaming over his gorgeous, sharp features, "Are you ok with this, with us? I'm going to go upstairs, and get a few things..."

"I have them. I bought them, while you were gone....and when you took a while to come home....I felt foolish." Sherlock opens his bedside drawer, showing John the box of condoms and lubricant. Sherlock begins to sniffle again, just as John tackles him back onto the bed. 

"Oh my sweetheart," John roams his hands all over his face, his neck, his chest as he kisses him, drawing his upper and lower lips into his mouth, "You aren't foolish, you are brilliant, my sweet prince."

Sherlock lays on the bed, facing John, their favorite position as they had determined. Close enough to whisper, touch, and look into each other's eyes. "Why do you keep calling me your prince?"

John grins and giggles, "You look like a prince to me. You're gorgeous." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "You are. Quit being ridiculous." 

John swoops in for a kiss, pulling Sherlock's waist, and grabbing his arse at the same time. He feels Sherlock's erection against his and he he delves into Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. John had promised himself he would be slow and gentle, but Sherlock was grabbing at John in kind. They were pulling at each other's shirts, desperately undressing as they ground against each other.

"Wait," John says, stroking Sherlock's hair, his forehead pressed to his, "Are you sure? I don't want to rush you -" 

No answer from Sherlock. Just a reply of him kissing and sucking harder on John's mouth than ever before. He unzips John's fly, pulling out his swelling cock in one fluid motion. Those gorgeous fingers, fingers that played violin and examined bodies at crime scenes, strokes John desperately. John moans, grappling to free Sherlock from his clothing. 

John and Sherlock bump into one another, laughing, as they try to undress each other as quickly as possible. John wants to be free of anything that Mary had bought him, anything that he'd worn with her (he had a fleeting thought of setting a match to all his belongings) but his mind snaps back to his love, his Sherlock, as he rolls on his back. 

Gorgeous, tall, pale Sherlock. Normally physically intimidating and difficult to read, was laying underneath John, completely naked, looking up at John with absolute adoration. John felt his eyes well up, and tears were falling down his cheeks. Sherlock, keeping his eyes on John as long as he could, reaches into the drawer, grabbing the lube. 

John did his best to wipe his tears and control himself, but then Sherlock reached up and patted his cheek, kissing his lips and as he lay back down, told John, "I want you to be my first and only." 

"Oh, bloody hell, Sh'lock...I'm trying...I'm trying not to be a mess. I love you."

"Please, we will be a mess together. I want you."

Sherlock, spread out before him, pleading. John applied lubricant and one finger into Sherlock, watching his back arch, a few tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. He removed his finger, "Am I hurting you?"

"No, no. John. I'm so happy. Please."

John, looking into Sherlock's eyes, the eyes that he'd always loved, stay on him as he pushes his cock into Sherlock as gently, slowly as he could. Sherlock's cock bobbed as he enters. They are connected. 

Sherlock pinches at John's arse, pulling him deep, surprising him. He plunges in response, pressing him down into a kiss of tongues and teeth. They rock, slowly, but sharply, Sherlock stroking himself in time to every thrust John gives. 

They cry, they wrap each other close in one another's arms, they can hardly breathe as they dig into one another. They have waited so long to be close, nothing was ever close enough.


	19. Chapter 19

As they were wrapped around one another, John pushing deeply into Sherlock, John places his forehead against Sherlock's and looks into his eyes. This felt more intimate, even closer, than when they were kissing. He could see Sherlock's deep breathing in his shoulders, feel Sherlock move his arm to touch himself more rapidly, watch as he rolls his lips inward over his teeth. 

They were perspiring, sweat was rolling from John's nose and fell on Sherlock. John smiles, then kisses Sherlock again. Their movements, their pushes, touches, moaning of each other's names became more desperate. John feels himself move closer and closer to release as Sherlock tightens around him. John's cock shifts at Sherlock's shuddering; spilling onto their stomachs. John came, grabbing and crying Sherlock's name, nipping at his neck as Sherlock dug his nails into John's back.

As they were kissing, lazily, John untangles himself from Sherlock and led him to the shower. Even though they had been naked with one another, made love to one another, Sherlock seemed shy and unsure. 

"My dear one, my prince." John kissed Sherlock's eyelashes, his cheeks, his shoulders as he began to wash him in a warm shower. Reverently, John washed every bit of Sherlock, telling him how much he loved him; all of him- his mind, his heart, his soul. As they rinsed the soap off of each other, John stood behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his stomach, pushing his chest and cheek into Sherlock's back. 

Even after Sherlock turned off the water, they held each other for a few moments, slipping against each other. They didn't have clean towels in the bathroom, so they held hands, Sherlock leading, to walk naked into the hallway into Sherlock's room. 

Sherlock took two steps into the hallway. John, distracted by the sight in front of him, ran straight into the back of Sherlock with a wet slap. Sherlock was looking to the right, towards the couch, with a scowl on his face. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock simply said, quickly and urgently pulling John's arm to regroup in Sherlock's bedroom.


	20. Chapter 20

John bursts into a fit of giggles; crying, side-splitting giggles as he dried off in Sherlock's room. As he wipes his hair and his eyes, searching to put back on his clothes, he wonders how he was going to navigate the conversation with Mycroft. Mycroft had known the timing of John's proposition of Sherlock, but John wonders if Mycroft would have guessed how successful he'd be. 

"John, what's wrong?"

Damn, he didn't realize his emotions were on his face. He runs his fingers through his hair, sighing as he puts his pants on. "I just..." He sits on the bed. Jesus, remember, it's not deception, it's just speeding up what was already inevitable, "I'm not pushing you too quickly am I?" John searches Sherlock's face as he buttons his shirt. 

"John," Sherlock sits beside him, pulling him close, "I've waited so long for you..."

A knock on the door and an impatient throat clearing from Mycroft interrupt their conversation. Sherlock gives John a peck on the nose, rolls his eyes, and they stand to meet with Mycroft in the living room. 

"Dr. Watson, Sherlock." Mycroft nods at them both as he settles on the couch. It strikes John as odd, as normally Mycroft opted to take John's chair. There is no hint on his face that he had just watched the two of them scanter from the bathroom to the bedroom naked. 

As they settle in their seats, Sherlock began, "To what do we owe this pleasure, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock. Your safety. Mary is much more dangerous than we anticipated. We need to discuss a plan."


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock looks at John. John looks at Mycroft. Mycroft begins, leaning forward on his umbrella, "Sherlock, my sources believe Mary was in Magnussen's office that night to kill you, and not Magnussen. She's been stopped for now, but to protect you, my sources and I need to move you from Baker Street. What I mean is, that's what I recommend. She is under the impression, according to her discussions we've taped, that you are in hospital. If you stay here, that assumption will be broken."

John felt ill, which was probably good for his facial expression. His discussion with Mary had worked, but now he would have to be apart from Sherlock to work out the next part of the plan.

Mycroft continues, "We've got two possibilities, we can.." John rubs his eyes, trying desperately not to cry. Jesus. Did Sherlock feel like this when he was planning the jump off the building? God, no. Jesus, no. He reminds himself to breathe, worrying that he's having a PTSD panic attack as he can't hear Mycroft prattling on. 

John feels fingers at the back of his neck, and his gorgeous detective sinking on to his lap. Sherlock begins whispering in his ear; he hears Mycroft in the kitchen making tea. 

"John...shhhh...I'm here. It's ok. Don't go where I can't follow. He's right. Mycroft is never wrong. But we will be ok. Put your hands down, let me see your eyes." 

John looks at him, hoping what Sherlock sees is love and grief at the knowledge that they will be apart. They search each other's faces, and John is somehow grateful that Sherlock was shot (not the pain or the terror or his near death, surely) but the fact that it forced the plan, forced them to come face to face with their feelings. John smiled slightly thinking that Sherlock could've had a similar sentiment about him being shot and dismissed from Afghanistan. 

Sherlock runs his thumb across John's lower lip, "Why are you smiling?"

John gestures to his shoulder, and then Sherlock's chest, "Just a silly thought how these two bullet wounds led us here. To us."

There was Sherlock's bright smile; the true one that John couldn't help kissing and nipping at as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, as his detective ran his fingers through John's graying sandy hair. 

"Oh good Lord!" Mycroft snaps from behind them, "I do understand that you're making up for lost time, but I do believe there is such a thing as coming up for air."


	22. Chapter 22

John and Sherlock, much to Sherlock's annoyance, snap back to paying attention to Mycroft. Sherlock stubbornly stays on John's lap, rolling his hand gently on his back. John bites back a smile; he's remembering an old school girlfriend that loved to crawl on his lap and snog with him in nearly the same position. 

Since Sherlock's chair is now vacant, Mycroft takes a seat there. He brings over only tea for himself, presuming correctly that the other two men's hands are otherwise preoccupied. 

"Oh, this is going to be more difficult than anticipated."

John is still rubbing his fingers and thumb, trying to push away past nightmares. He cannot talk. 

Sherlock replies for them, "Because of the danger involved with Mary?"

"Yes," Mycroft is careful to look at Sherlock only, "It will be more difficult for you two than I realized. The necessity for you, Sherlock, to leave town and stay in hospital so you are safe. Mary must also feel that she has John's undivided attention." 

"Who will protect John?" His voice is low, John feels the cello vibrations in his own chest. He takes Sherlock's hand. 

"I will make him my responsibility. You love him Sherlock, so I will give everything to protect him."

John feels Sherlock suck in a breath and leave his lap all at once. He jumps up and nearly tackles Mycroft in an awkward hug of limbs and shaky "thank yous." Mycroft gives John a look of wonderment, and John truly believes his protection may be the reason for the brothers' first physical expression of affection. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft takes him by the shoulders and pushes him back slightly, kindly, so he can look him in the eyes, "You need to pack. Your car is downstairs. We need to get you out before Mary catches you. I have a disguise. Mrs. Hudson will travel with you, so you can be presumed to be her relative if we are under surveillance. I'll go talk to Mrs. Hudson so you two can have your goodbyes." 

Sherlock backs away from his brother as he stands, and returns to John's side. John goes to Mycroft, standing close to him. He knows the answers, but he needs the code, to be sure the plan has not changed. 

"Mycroft, how long must he be gone? And can we talk to one another?"

"Until Christmas. A little over 4 months. And you will pass notes back and forth through me, with possibly a few visits, as that will be normal. But you will be busy misleading Mary. Your seeming innocence, John, and Sherlock's absence, will lull her into a false sense of security."

Mycroft leaves, John works on keeping his face open with sadness as he turns to face Sherlock. They press each other with kisses, rubbing their hands all over each other. As Sherlock packs, John gathers items from other parts of the apartment. He tucks some letters into pockets of Sherlock's luggage when he asks Sherlock to leave him a moment so he can cry a bit alone. He hugs Sherlock's pillow, breathing in his scent, and that's how Sherlock finds him when he barges back into the room.

Sherlock slicks himself up, and they make love, crying, not even stripping, their pants barely to their knees. Sherlock plunges deeply into John, and John rocks against him, working on memorizing every nuance of Sherlock's groans, his hips, his neck, his lips. Sherlock comes quickly, spilling inside John and onto the bed. It takes John a few minutes later, as he's trying to breathe, to keep the great, large sobs from wreaking him. He's cried more these weeks than he's cried in years. 

John kisses him goodbye in their hallway, pulling the hoodie over Sherlock's eyes in a tease. Their hallway, where they giggled like schoolboys after chasing a cab, where they laid on the stairs, making a bed out of them when they were pissed. John can't help himself, he pulls Sherlock to the stairs, and John stands up two stairs so he's a bit taller than his best friend. 

"When this is over, all over, I will marry you."

"John, not now, John." Sherlock grabs at his arms, searching his face. 

"Yes, now. I have no ring. But we are going to be apart. I want you to know, without a doubt, that I am yours and you are mine. If you'll have me. I want to waltz with you, in front of everyone..."

John feels silly, giddy, this is absolutely ridiculous timing but he wants this in Sherlock's ears, in his mind palace. He wants to know that Sherlock knows his intentions without a doubt. Sherlock squeezes him tightly and nearly picks him up slightly. 

"Since we're two blokes, I decided to get up a little higher than you, rather than down on one knee."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock huffs, kissing John deeply. 

"No, you're ridiculous," John kisses Sherlock, wrapping his fingers through those curls, tickling Sherlock's ribs with his other hand. 

They kiss until Mrs. Hudson, eyes red from crying, loads up with Sherlock in the car and John and Mycroft stand in the hallway; they don't dare stand outside to watch them drive away to hospital and blow cover. 

"Ready?" Mycroft clicks. They go upstairs, change into army fatigues and weaponry all brought courtesy of Queen and Country. John is resolved and is slipping back into familiar skin, but is surprised with how easy Mycroft looks and acts as commander. 

The radius is evacuated, safety secured. 37 minutes after John and Mycroft leave Baker Street, their team detonates a bomb that blows out most of their flat; keeping most of the structure in tact, but it will be enough to get on the news. Operation 'Evacuation' commences.  
John is given the 'go' to text Mary as he and Mycroft ride in an SUV towards his private jet. 

'So, Mary, you decided to bomb our flat to try and kill him? A fucking bullet wasn't good enough? Jesus Christ.' He turns off his cell as the team confirms she's received and read the message. 

They load into the jet, greeted by others in fatigues, plain clothes officers, bags of weaponry. A minor post in the British government indeed. 

John recalls Sherlock's delicate, gloved hands looking over an envelope, under a lamp in the Detective Inspector's office. Before cutting it open with a pen knife, he'd remarked it was Czech stationary written in a woman's hand (obviously.) 

That envelope, the copy of the pink phone, was his first love letter from his wife Mary.

Mycroft and John were heading to the Czech Republic to volley another letter back.


	23. Chapter 23

Mycroft had explained Moriarty wasn't dead. He had explained the goal, the 'burn the heart out of you,' at the swimming pool, was to pull Sherlock and John apart. Sitting in the plane, their fatigues and gear between them, John shivered at how badly he wanted to put a bullet between Moriarty's eyes. For good. Mary was introduced to comfort and distract John, and their marriage to break Sherlock's heart, distracting him, ending with her assassinating Sherlock. The story feels familiar. 

The Holmes brothers were always uncannily able to read thoughts. "John," Mycroft began, his eyes pinpoints, jaw clenched, "Every enemy targets you or him because the two of you are a force of nature. Everyone has always assumed, rightly so, that you've been in love with one another?"

John didn't answer. He thought of the letters he'd written Sherlock, and if the brilliant man had found them yet, "We are apart now, Mycroft?"

"But you're together."

John smiled at this, looking out over the clouds and small fields below. 

"Two hours, Mycroft?" He hummed back in agreement, "Did you text Mary back acting as Sherlock yet?"

"Not yet. I'm waiting for it to hit more news stations, to presumably reach the cardiac rehab hospital in Birmingham."

"And Sherlock's phone is blocked?" John asks, biting his upper lip. 

"Yes, Robert here," Mycroft gestures to a plains clothes officer across the aisle, "Can send messages if you'd like. He's already had to respond to Sherlock and pass a message from Lestrade."

"Ok. Just tell him I miss him. God knows what you'll get back, just warning you." 

Robert clicks on a laptop, then texts on the cell phone. In a moment, he coughs, turning the phone so John can read the message:

_I miss you, too. I'm still sticky, and I smell like you. SH_

John just shakes his head. 

Mycroft turns to Robert. "Please text the message to Mary from Sherlock."

Again, laptop clicking and then working the phone. Robert reads it aloud before sending it. 

_I know it wasn't you. The bomb was careless and messy. I'm trying to convince John. Please know I'm sincerely doing my best. SH_

John exhales a breath. They are flying into Liberec, right on schedule. They would fly in, take a helicopter to the countryside to the south of the city, waiting for the caravan of seedy criminals that were expecting John, Mycroft, and their band of merry men to be friendlies. They would capture, torture if needed, to get to Moriarty. 

Robert interjects, "She's responded sir,"

Reading aloud again. 

_Why are you helping me? Why are you trying to save our marriage?_

Robert raises his eyes at Mycroft; he gives him the phrases he imagines his brother would use. Robert resets and types as Mycroft speaks. 

_Because John loves you. And I love John. I cannot be selfish where he is concerned. SH_

Mycroft gives John a thoughtful look before he gives Robert the command to hit send. John does not break eye contact, but gives a small, sharp nod of his head.


	24. Chapter 24

Dearest Sherlock,

I do not know when you'll find these letters. You're clever, so hopefully sooner rather than later. 

I now know exactly how you felt before you faked your suicide. I am doing something to protect you, something alone, but with help. The same kind of help you had. 

I forgive you. I forgave you. I love you. I hope I can explain what I've been doing and why I did what I did, and why I'm gone now. I will be in touch as soon as I can. 

There are other letters for you to read, for when you miss me. Or you are angry. Or if you never want to talk to me again. Or when you want to punch me. 

I love you.   
I will always love you.   
I've always loved you. 

Marry me. 

Your John. 

 

_I am at the hospital. They set me up in a large office with experiments. Mrs. Hudson will have dinner with me, then go home. How are you? SH_

_I ate for you. Nearly died of boredom listening to Mrs. Hudson drone on. Was sad to wash off the smell of you. SH_

_John? Please text me. SH_

_John. I found your letter. You need to tell me what the HELL right now. SH._


	25. Chapter 25

John knows by the looks Mycroft and Robert are giving each other that Sherlock is texting. They aren't sharing out loud, so John doesn't ask. Mycroft is his commander for this mission, so the information will be given if it is necessary. 

The 2nd hour of the airplane ride is full if tactical rehearsal, language review, equipment check and triple check. The unload and load onto the chinook helicopter in rehearsed silence. 

Their allies (John smiles, the local version of Sherlock's homeless network) guides them to a landing field with fires and kerosene lamps. 

John and Mycroft lead the crew off the helicopter. They wear night vision goggles and their entourage flanks them on all sides. 

They crunch in the underbrush, moving their group behind a barn and a camouflage of trees and cattle. John is thankful that the smells and terrain is vastly different from Afghanistan. They can just barely see their chinook on the other side of the field, barely illuminated by a small landing fire. 

They hear the group approaching from 11 o'clock position. John breathes, listening to Mycroft's soft command and hand gestures for silence. 

The group of five men circle around them, moving out towards the chinook. Mycroft gives a signal to move forward, and the tactical troops surge forward, quickly overtaking the five men. John sees a blurry swirl of activity in his night vision goggles, but can tell that they have been contained. Mycroft's plan has worked as he intended. 

John leads the group into the barn structure. It is already set up, thanks to the local 'homeless network,' with rope, benches, and small lamps. John hates torture and interrogation. He hates thinking that these men may just be pawns and may have no idea what they're doing. He thinks of Sherlock, and Mary, and strengthens his resolve. 

The five men are set down, more gently than John anticipated, their weapons piled near the door by the tacticals. When they are sitting and they are secured with ropes, and they each have a gun barrel to their head, Mycroft begins speaking, "co víte o žena volá sama Mary Morstanová?"

As anticipated, there is no reply. John peels off his night vision goggles. He rubs his eyes. Mycroft rephrases, "kdo je váš velitel ? je Mary Morstanová ?"

John looks over the group of five men, he comes closer to them, stepping closer into the light. The man in the middle raises his head, and looks frightened of John. He jumps back a bit on the bench, trying to put as much space between him and John as possible. 

Mycroft looks at John, then snaps at the man, "proč se chováš takhle? co je to s tebou?"

The man answers, "Sherlock Holmes slíbil, že nás zabije, jestli se někdy dotkla John Watson . zabít nás všechny ."

Mycroft purses his lips, "když byl tady Sherlock ?"

The man, pulling back as far away from John as he could, tries to break eye contact. He's trying to think of what to say. The gun barrel is pushed harder onto his head. 

"před hodinou"

Mycroft looks murderous, "pokud jste mi lhal tě zabiju sám . Řekl ti něco?"

The man looks at John, then Mycroft, "že je v příštím plánování dveří do budovy. On nám chtěl říct svému lékaři Johna Watsona , že se těžce poučili, neopustit svého milence za sebou , takže je stanovení tohoto chybu."

John can't take it anymore, "What the actual fuck, Mycroft?"

Mycroft pulls down his camouflage front, "Sherlock followed us, really, beat us here. He threatened everyone because he loves you. And he's next door working on experiments. We need to go talk to him."


	26. Chapter 26

John thought he was losing his mind. His very reason for being here, his motivation for this entire trip, was to keep Sherlock safe. Was to keep him out of harm's way. How could Sherlock have beat them there? Why were they so afraid of John?

"Why the fear, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock," He said it clipped, raising his eyebrows, "Seems to have threatened them within an inch of their lives if they touched you."

"How could he, Mycroft? Be here?"

"Is he here, John?"

John suddenly felt a headache beginning behind his eyes. He willed it away. 

"Who else is a superb actor, John, who moves in disguises and gets the masses to see what he wants them to see? I can assure you, my brother is clever, but he is under 24 hour surveillance. He is at hospital. Mrs. Hudson is with family."

"Mycroft, these surprises are wearing on my nerves," John follows Mycroft, with the group of soldiers, leaving five to guard the men. John begins to feel a cold sweat down his neck and lower back, and is grateful that he penned Sherlock a group of letters before he left on this mission. 

John kept a firm grip on the large semi-automatic weapon as he walked, but if he were honest with himself, Mycroft's presence made him feel safer. With Moriarty, it was always a battle of cleverness, will, and surprise. Jesus, could nobody just fucking stay dead?

The group waited outside the building, where they were sure Moriarty was hiding. 

John looked at Mycroft, and they slowly snuck through the door, down a hallway, and fanned out into a larger room with a cement floor. Three men stayed outside to guard. John was reminded of an extraction mission of a POW accompany a group of American soldiers. They'd snuck in, put bullets through four insurgents skulls, came out with a beaten American army doctor that he patched up as best he could before the ambulance helicopter arrived. 

John tried to regulate his breathing as he considered he was the only army doctor for miles, and they were most definitely on their own.


	27. Chapter 27

As they entered the room, they came face to face with two men sitting on either side of a small, run down table. 

Sherlock was sitting, calm as ever, facing a very alive Moriarty. 

"Well, John, it appears I was partially wrong and partially correct." Mycroft huffed.


	28. Chapter 28

John is utterly confused. 

"I don't understand." Is all he can say, his words echoing in the room. Mycroft moves himself so he is between John and the two men at the table. 

"John, obviously, Sherlock beat us here and contacted Moriarty directly before we arrived."

"But I still don't understand," John stepped around Mycroft to stare at Sherlock. Sherlock stares back at him, but his face was absolutely unreadable. John breaks eye contact. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty interjects in his sing-song drawl, "What a cute pet you have. Look at how dressed up and sweet your lover boy and brother look in their little army outfits. With their fighting men all around them."

Mycroft gives John a long look. John looks for a silent sign. Did Mycroft lie to him? Did he know this entire time Sherlock and Moriarty would meet here? Their plan was to neutralize Moriarty once and for all, now that they knew Mary had been working for him. 

"You're finally no longer a virgin." Moriarty drawled, drawing circles on the table with his fingers. He leaned in towards Sherlock suggestively, licking his lips.

John moves closer to Mycroft, their shoulders touching. Their group of soldiers took the nonverbal signal and readied weapons. 

Sherlock isn't hardly breathing. He stares, eyes open, into John's eyes, then turns his head to face Moriarty. 

"Tedious. We are here. You're supposed to be dead," Sherlock crosses his arms and legs. 

"Oh, you're supposed to be dead, too. Apparently hell was full that day and spit us out."

John had understood the mission when it was purely military. When it was he and Mycroft navigating against a hostile force. Now, he had no idea how to neutralize the target. When was the ambush coming? Could he just start shooting? 

John's fingers itched just to pop a bullet in between Moriarty's eyes. The last time he'd seen him was in his ridiculous performance as Richard Brooks, and then everyone had said what a liar Sherlock was. Jesus, now they were all in another country, Sherlock and Moriarty sitting at a table like they were waiting for tea, while Mycroft, John, and soldiers stood at the ready around the two men. 

The objective had been to keep Sherlock away, since he had the uncanny ability to get himself into trouble. Since he was still healing. But no, bloody idiot had to come here, showing them up, beating them here. 

"Oh Sherlock, your lover looks so confused. Shouldn't you let him know what's going on?"

"Oh, Moriarty, by all means."

Moriarty turns and stands, walking over to stand in front of John. John is afraid that if he weren't slightly leaning on Mycroft's shoulder that his knees would buckle and he'd collapse. 

Even though Moriarty is standing in front of John, he continues to address Sherlock, relaying the information that led them to this point. For Chrissakes this feels just like a speech from Bond villian Dr. No. 

"Sherlock, what would have happened if your pet and brother and caravan had barged in here without your intervention?"

God, it comforted John to no end that Sherlock looked absolutely bored and annoyed, "They would be dead from your ambush."

"But what has changed, old friend?"

"Mary Morstan, she tried to kill me, she tried to kill Sebastian Moran, she's tried to kill you."

"So where does that leave us, Sherlock?" Moriarty popped the consonants of his name. 

"Allies against a common threat." Sherlock kept his legs crossed, tired of the entire exchange. 

Mycroft interjects, "What if she's pregnant with John's child?" 

"Oh, naive Mycroft," Moriarty clicks sympathetically, "That was just a distraction to keep John and Sherlock from focusing on the real plan. She's bent on taking over my organization. She's bent on destroying all of us in this room. And she will do so, with Charles Magnussen's backing, unless we stop them. All of us."

Mycroft looks sympathetically at John, then addresses Sherlock, "Is this what we need to do, Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock clips as Moriarty steps back to sit down across from Sherlock. 

John takes a moment to review the entire ridiculous room full of people on edge, "And we couldn't have just discussed all this over a phone call?" and he storms out, marching across the landscape back towards the chinook. 

The three men that were left outside to guard the door attempt to speak to Captain Watson, but he ignores them; climbs back into his seat in the helicopter and begins cleaning his service weapon.


	29. Chapter 29

John is alone in the chinook for at least 20 minutes, just cleaning and putting away his high powered weapon, packing away his knife, but keeping his smaller defensive service weapon on him. 

His hands are perfectly still. He hears someone approaching the doorway, but he doesn't look up. John is itching for a fight. He knows if Sherlock walks through that entry he would break his nose, his jaw. He prays it's anyone but him.

"John." Mycroft; Commander out maneuvered by his baby brother. Or John out maneuvered by everyone. He still wasn't sure. 

Mycroft, arrogant bastard, sounds sad and unsure. John doesn't answer. He takes a rag and dusts his boots. He is in the same zone, same set of procedures, he had followed when he had some downtime every night in Afghanistan. 

"John, I'm sorry. My objective was to keep you with me. To keep you safe."

John sits, nothing left to do as far as his weaponry or his fatigues are concerned. 

"So, I'm an idiot child, then? Always to be kept in the dark by the Holmes brothers?"

"John..."

"Just muscle, just in case you need me to shoot somebody? Never trusted. Just led around. Why was this whole plan concocted?"

"To get you out of England while Sherlock talked with Moriarty. Keep you away from Mary. We were 87% sure Moriarty wouldn't harm Sherlock, but we brought the Calvary just in case."

John leaned back in the small, metal jump seat, looking up at the ceiling, "Jesus, 87%, that's great. How do you figure those fucking probabilities?"

"John, we prepared for every eventuality."

"Again, I'm an idiot kept in the dark...."

"You were trying to keep Sherlock in the dark for the same reasons. The next step is for you to return and slowly patch things up with Mary until Christmas, while we work through our plan."

John saw the sunlight slowly fill the inside cabin, and he saw the tired and defeated look on Mycroft's face. His eyes were red, and he rubbed his jaw. 

"Just take me back to a hotel for a while. Don't tell Sherlock where I'm at, and don't bother me. I'm apparently an idiot, so it's best if you leave me out of everything."

"John,"

"No 'John' me. I'm Captain Watson. I'm giving you an order. Leave me be and do what I say."


	30. Chapter 30

It took 30 minutes to load up the gear and the men. 

Sherlock didn't board on their chinook. 

John and Mycroft didn't speak for the entire duration of both legs of the flight. 

John didn't even apologize when he bumped into Mycroft's leg, almost toppling him, when they crawled up into the airplane for the longer leg of the journey home. 

In the silence, he let his mind wander. From the first meeting at Bart's, to them agreeing quickly to share a flat, to John shooting a man for Sherlock within days; everything between the two men had moved at a breakneck pace. 

The pace was wonderful to John. 

Normal life had screeched at him and made him restless. Life had slowed, been unbearable, ever since Sherlock's jump. Sherlock had slowly become more human, more caring, then he'd left for two years. He'd become independent, wild, selfish. Nothing would change him. As much as John loved him, he would never get in his heart, his mind. 

In the two years of Sherlock being dead, John had moved on with Mary. But John and Sherlock were always close to one another, so close they were combusting under the skin, then they pushed each other away. They were like the sun and a planet. This entire trip, roundabout flight to the Czech Republic, had been a disaster. They couldn't communicate. They were destructive when they were together. They risked each other's lives, and couldn't even talk about it. It was completely fucked up. 

John thought, as they touched back down on English soil, was it really just yesterday morning he and Sherlock had desperately made love on Sherlock's bed before they'd detonated their flat? 

Mycroft mutters (Yells? Pleads?) at John but he ignores him. He marches off the plane, walks a half mile (miles?) down the runway and down a grassy ramp to a hidden path with a few trees at the far end of the runway. John is thirsty, and tired, so he just lays down in the grass, in the shade. The sky was turning pink, fading into evening. 

John thinks to himself that Sherlock cannot love, because Sherlock cannot trust. He assumes everyone, even his best friend, is an idiot. An army doctor, a captain, a sharpshooter, a man willing to die for his love, for his friend; an idiot. On the same level as Anderson. 

It hurts. He'd rather be shot. Again. 

John recalls another letter he'd left in Sherlock's bag, when he thought he was going to meet with Moriarty himself to kill him. Before the entire plan, his entire life, was even more fucked up than usual. 

_Sherlock,_

_Whatever happens, I promise, I will always be there. Always._

_Love,_

_John_


	31. Chapter 31

John is content to lay in the grass, feel the air turn cooler and condensation settle on him as the sun goes down. He hears no traffic, no planes, and just sees a few lights click on at the other end of the airport. He doesn't have his phone, must have left it on the plane, so he assumes there is no way for anyone to track him. Or, they may be leaving him alone.

He pulls out his service weapon, and twirls it around in his hands. He scares himself when he has a fleeting thought; what would Sherlock do if he shot himself, right now? Would he care, or would John Watson just be another body to look up at the morgue with Molly?

John takes out the clip and snaps the safety on (which is unnecessary since it is unloaded) but he's worried that suicide is crossing his mind. He hasn't thought if putting a bullet in his brain since right before he met Sherlock. He know that Sherlock cares; he remembers the look on his face in the pool with Moriarty. But now, Jesus, they're siding with the bastard? Against Mary? God. 

John can hear water running nearby. He needs to piss desperately. He goes further into the woods, relieves himself, then climbs deeper and deeper into the wooded area. He's got money in his fatigues, no cell phone, and he's unsure where he's going. He just wants to disappear. Off the radar.

He looks up and around. No CCTV cameras. Could the Holmes brothers be unable to track him? Surely, it wouldn't be that hard to figure out walking distance from the airport, at least soon. 

John finds the source of the water. It's a small brook; fresh water. He washes himself and then takes a drink from his cupped hands. He sees a dirt road across the field, so he starts walking. He crosses over, around, through the brush in order to mask his footprints. He waits on the other side of the road, partially hidden. 

After waiting for 45 minutes, John sees an old jeep start to pull up the road, crunching gravel underneath the tires. John slowly moves out into the middle of the road, holding up his hand. He approaches the driver cautiously after they stop. It's a young couple, out on a casual date. 

"Captain John Watson. My vehicle broke down. Can you give me a ride to the next town?"

The driver, a young man in his 20s, answers with a shaky voice, "Sir, the next town isn't for an hour or so. We are in the middle of the countryside."

"Fine by me. Ok if I climb in?" John flashes them a smile. They nod in agreement. John hops in the backseat, laying down, so he can look up at the stars as they drive.


	32. Chapter 32

John believes he's utterly lost his mind. But he is happy to be listless, insane, doing something where he has no one to answer to. 

After being surrounded by people for most of his adult life, army comrades, roommates, London's police force, it is calming to be laying down in the back of a jeep, looking up at the stars. His eyes prick a little with tears as he wonders if Sherlock knows where he is, or even if he misses him, but his anger and selfish feelings push that aside. 

He's spent the past 32 hours awake, traveling to face his sworn enemy, who is now his comrade in this crazy scheme against Mary. He wonders about their flat. Will Sherlock sleep at Mycroft's? Does he even miss him? Or is he still in the Czech Republic running around with Moriarty? 

Again, John decides he will think only of himself. What does John want to do? Where does John want to go? He will not be chasing behind anyone else for a while. 

The jeep begins to ride easier. The road has changed from gravel to blacktop. John sits up slowly; he doesn't want to scare the driver and his date. 

"I appreciate the ride. What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight. Do you have somewhere to go? Somewhere we can take you?" The young woman asks. 

John yawns, "No, is there a hotel, or anything, here?" 

The young man speaks up, turning down a side street. "Well, there's a very small place with rooms to rent over here. My dad is was in the service, too. Come to our place."

"Are you sure?" John asks, "I didn't ask your names, I'm so sorry."

"I'm Cheryl, and this is William," She smiles, "Please, come over."

John realizes the couple had been holding hands, and he wipes his eyes before they notice. As they pull up to a quaint, little farm house, John nearly trips getting out of the jeep. He's exhausted, shaking, and can't remember when he'd last eaten. 

An older man, tall, muscled, tan, comes out of the house, affectionately hugging the young couple in the dimming moonlight. He sees John, then stands a little straighter, "William, who is this?"

"Um, Captain, uh--"

"Captain Dr. John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years Afghanistan, sir." They salute one another, then shake hands. 

"Come in, Captain Watson. Joseph Green. I only reached the rank of Corporal, but I was an assistant at times to our division's army doctor. What brings you here?" 

"Car trouble. I'd flown in and then couldn't get my car to start to get me home, thought I'd hitch a ride to get some help."

"Did you need a phone, Dr. Watson?" Cheryl asked as they sat down to the kitchen table. 

"No, everyone I know is out on a mission. I don't want to impose. If I could just get a bite to eat then I'll be on my way..."

"Nonsense." Joseph interjects, "I don't know what business you had at the government airport but you look done in. My other son has clothes your size. Stay the night and then we will get you sorted tomorrow. I'll fix you some food."

John grins. He's looking forward to a night of war stories and discussions that do not revolve around a detective or a murdered body. 

"Sounds perfect."


	33. Chapter 33

_Any sign of him? SH_

_No. There are tracks by the airport but then they disappear. MH_

_You promised to keep him safe. How did he get away? SH_

_He's not a pet. He's an angry, upset, grown man who had enough. MH_

_I need to talk to him. SH_

_I can't make him appear, Sherlock. He doesn't want to be found. MH_


	34. Chapter 34

John wakes up in a cold sweat, unsure where he is. He is biting down on his knuckles, regulating his breathing.

He swears he can hear Sherlock's violin, but that makes no sense. The only sounds are a bit of wind rustling the trees. He listens more closely, everyone else is asleep. He must not have been screaming. John remembers the jeep ride and yesterday's hospitality. It was a fun evening; he felt like a little boy, it had been fun to be the center of attention for once. 

He peeks through the curtains. The sun is just starting to rise up and turn part of the sky a lighter blue. 4:30 am. 

John carries his borrowed shoes as he walks out of the guest room; he's changed out of all his army fatigues. He folds them and leaves them at the end of the crisply remade bed. 

He writes Joseph Green a thank you note and leaves some money to repay them for the clothing and the packet of bread, meat, cheese, and apple he puts in his pocket. 

He sees William's cell by the couch. He thinks of calling or texting Sherlock, but he decides against it. Instead, he slips out quietly, shivering in his sweatshirt against the crisp, early morning air. He crouches a moment outside to put the shoes on. 

As he begins a brisk walking pace, he bites into the apple and continues walking further away from London. He recalls the last letter he had tucked into Sherlock's bag. Just in case, he'd thought. He'd tucked it down deeper, so he'd hopefully find it last. 

__

_Sherlock,_

_If I don't make it back to you, know that you've made me the happiest man on earth by loving me._

_Don't ever lose hope that love conquers all._

_My heart is yours,_

_John_

__


	35. Chapter 35

_There are tire tracks from the last footprints. Near a small village outside Tring. SH_

_Anyone in the village see him? MH_

_Still asking. SH_

_Anything? MH_

_I broke into a house. His army fatigues were folded on a guest bed. It smelled like him. No one's here. Bed's cold. SH_

_Stayed of own free will? No sign of struggle or injury? MH_

_no. SH_

_Let him go, then, brother dear. MH_

__


	36. Chapter 36

John walks down another forest path, the sunlight beginning to warm him. He feels like a child run away from home. He wonders if anyone misses him. Isn't that what children do, run away to see if people will miss them? To get attention?

John finds a beautiful, sunny field with wild flowers. He walks through it, the grasses up to his thighs, running his fingers over the tops of the grass. John twirls himself in circles in the grass, takes a few purple blooms and tucks them behind his ear. He's smiling, and then is giggling. This is ridiculous. This is grand. 

He takes a moment and lays down on the grass to look up at the sky. It's mid morning. The grass has covered him on all sides, and the breeze is beautiful and light. John looks up and watches the clouds in the midday sun. Is that cloud a horse? Is that a duck? Is that a sprawled out dead body, floating in the sky? John thinks how he's relaxed and looked at the sky more these past two nights than he has in years. 

He takes our the rest of his food, eats it slowly. Drinks a small bottle of water. John decides sometime mid afternoon to move on. He wonders if he's had a complete mental breakdown, as he's never wanted to leave his life, or run away before. As he begins walking a path, it swooping slightly uphill, he wonders again if he shot himself if anyone would notice. If anyone would find him. He doesn't like these thoughts and he wonders what Ella would say. Is it more PTSD? Anger? Heartbreak?

John makes sure to keep the ammunition clip out if the gun. 

The path swoops up and around to a beautiful, open space with rocks that reminds him a bit of Dartmoor. In the distance, he can see a cabin, in fairly good shape from what he can tell. Beyond that, he sees another small town in the distance. He estimates he can stop at the cabin for the evening, then continue on to the small town the next day. He may even be able to hitch a ride. 

He sees that as he's been casually walking, storm clouds have been appearing in the distance. John grins, and breaks into a run, hoping to reach the cabin before it starts to rain.


	37. Chapter 37

_Any contacts in the countryside that can help search? There are markings in a field, but then the trail is cold due to a rainstorm. SH_

_Sherlock, I'm not helping. He's an adult, most likely safe, and I've got to spend time keeping an eye on his wife. MH_

_I've got to find him. SH_

_You won't find him until he wants to be found. Army Captain. Three years in hostile battlefields. He's cleverer than you think. MH_

_I know he's clever. SH_


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock is nearly to tears, recalling the look on John's face when he'd walked into the room to find Moriarty and Sherlock across from one another. He'd wanted to explain; John was his heart, and once he'd deduced from his letters where he was going, he couldn't be sure Moriarty wouldn't take the chance to break it. 

He searches for John, pesters Mycroft, after his smaller plane had touched down back in England. He had ridden the separate plane to and from so if he were targeted, John and Mycroft would be safe. He thought he'd been loving, kind, and brave to beat John there so he could suss out what Moriarty wanted before his brother and John went in there guns blazing. 

John was angry enough to disappear. 

Human nature mystified him. 

Sherlock deduces where John has traveled to the end of the runway, based on scuff marks and displaced gravel patterns. He finds signs of John drinking water, hitching a ride to a small village, spending the night with a family he didn't know. 

Reckless.  
Dangerous. 

Sherlock broke into the house when no one answered, finding John's fatigues on the bed. He took John's undershirt to carry with him; dried in his sweat so it smelled just like John. He rips it, in a long strip, so he can wrap it around his neck to keep his hands free while still keeping John's scent near to him. 

Sherlock spends an hour wandering the edges of the town. It begins to rain, wiping any hope of easily following a trail. He assumes John left early by foot and didn't hitch another ride. He texts Mycroft again, who still stubbornly refuses to help. 

Everyone is angry with him. 

After hiding under an awning during the quick cloudburst, he takes out John's letters. He doesn't understand. Did John not mean what he wrote? John was a terrible liar. But had he fooled him?

Did Sherlock break John? 

He paces the edge of town, realizing he's probably out of his depth. John is clever at hiding. As twilight begins to fall, Sherlock catches sight of a glen with trampled grass. He runs, still gripping the last letter of John's, John's last vow to always be there. 

Sherlock feels tears creep out of his eyes, down his cheeks. He's happy, and scared. John was here; there's a tramped down section of grass that fits his body size. The light is fading quickly, but he will not leave without John. He circles around until he crosses out of a small patch of trees into an open glen. There is a cabin in the distance, with the lights glowing inside, and further away another small town. 

Sherlock looks at the ground; there are footprints that seem to move to the direction of the cabin. He breaks out into a sprint towards the small, wooden building.


	39. Chapter 39

John barely makes it to the cabin before the rain; it's still quite light outside in the late afternoon sun. He knocks and knocks, but no one answers. It's abandoned; a vacation cabin. He doesn't even have to pick a lock to get in. The door cracks open with a solid push. 

There is a bed, a table, a couch, kerosene lamps, very small kitchenette. John takes the covers off the couch, shaking out the dust. He decides he will kip just for an hour, at most, then continue. As his eyes begin to droop, he notices a small pantry in the kitchen. If there is food, he may take some more, leaving more of his money behind as repayment. 

Before he closes his eyes, he puts his weapon back together, taking the safety off. He tucks it right under the couch where he can easily reach it. 

He dreams. Pleasant dreams during his slumber; the last kisses he remembers with Sherlock, tea, the view outside their flat. 

He wakes himself, after about forty minutes, the soldier mind never turned off, and it's early evening. John stumbles around in the near dark until he finds matches and the kerosene lamp. Digging in the pantry, he locates a can of beans and eats the food with his fingers. He can help giggling; he's like goldilocks and the three bears, breaking into houses for food and naps. 

John leaves, forgetting to extinguish the kerosene lamp before continuing on his way, but remembering to tuck his gun back in his waistband. Safety on. His thoughts are less dark about self harm, so he trusts himself to keep the gun loaded. 

He will use the bright moon and stars to guide his way towards the next town. He walks quickly as it's getting chilly now that the sun has nearly disappeared.


	40. Chapter 40

Sherlock slides on the gravel, stopping himself near the lit cabin, knocking against the window. No one is inside, so he barges in. The couch was slept in, food eaten, money left; John. His heart starts pounding. Where is he?

He runs back outside, searching the darkening countryside. Listening, he hears the sharp, quick crunching of feet maybe 200 yards away. The pace, the shuffle. John was close. 

He thinks through his options, unsure of how to proceed. John is mad. If he snuck up on him, he may cause him to fire his weapon, fight him, or run. 

He begins yelling, loud. Crying. God, he doesn't understand why John is leaving him. 

"John, John please. John. Stop." He keeps walking towards the sound if his footsteps, hoping that John will wait for him.


	41. Chapter 41

John keeps his eyes on the town, and occasionally looks up at the stars. It's gorgeous. Without city lights, it's so much easier to see the complexity and layers of the stars. 

John stops. He hears gravel sliding some yards behind him. Jesus, is that Sherlock? Did he find him already? 

John heard Sherlock's voice calling, his feet walking towards him. His voice was strained. Was he crying?

"John. John please. John. Stop."

John is tempted to run, but it's dark. Running without light will cause them both to get hurt. 

"John." Sherlock is nearly to him, zig zagging a bit to try and find him in the dark. 

"Here." John says. Jesus, he sounds tired. He hears Sherlock running across the dirt and gravel, stopping in front of John. 

They don't talk. John can't really see Sherlock's face, and John surmises Sherlock can't really see, either. They're still close to the cabin, so John begins walking back towards the light in the window. 

"John..." 

He doesn't answer. He keeps walking, hands in pockets. He can tell Sherlock is somewhere behind him, to his left. He's following John, shuffling and catching up. Sherlock tries to take John's arm; he shakes him off without a word. 

John re-enters the cabin like he owns it. He leaves the door open for Sherlock and sits on the couch. Sherlock follows, looking around the cabin, eyes settling on John. 

John notices how Sherlock's coat and clothes are damp and rumpled. His pants and shoes are splayed with mud. As he's watching him, Sherlock takes damp letters out of his coat pocket. He unfolds them, reading them to himself, then refolds them. 

"John, I don't understand why you don't love me anymore."

John notices the strange scrap of fabric wrapped around Sherlock's neck, in place of a scarf. It's a Tshirt. 

It's his Tshirt. 

It's the Tshirt that was under his army fatigues he'd left at the Greens.


	42. Chapter 42

"Sherlock, sit." John pats the couch beside him. Sherlock is gripping John's letters to his chest. He sits, never taking his eyes off John's face. 

"John, I..."

"Quiet." John looks at Sherlock, keeping his fingers laced on his lap. Sherlock reaches for John's fingers, but John pulls away. Sherlock leans forward, parting his lips, his brow furrowed. 

"You will give your full attention."

Sherlock leans back in the couch, steepling his fingers underneath his chin, the sweaty letters tucked into his palm. 

John recalls origami black lotuses tucked into palms. A message, sent in a symbol. Sherlock is full of symbols; he's in his normal mind palace pose, but he has John's shirt around his neck and his letters in his palm. 

John knows what he wants Sherlock to hear, what he wants Sherlock to understand. He considers how and what he can say to get through to Sherlock to make an impact. 

He recalls leadership military training. He remembers being barked orders and having his motives questioned at every turn by majors; Major Sholto questioning his tactics, treatment of new recruits, and the setup of his medical tent. Captain Dr. John Watson had to be able to explain and justify his thought processes quickly under pressure.

"Why do you think I don't love you anymore?" John snaps at Sherlock. 

"I..well.."

"Why?"

"You left."

John sits up straighter. Major Sholto would keep his spine straight, not breaking eye contact, "When did I leave?"

"After we flew back.."

"We? Really. We?" He punches on the word 'we.'

"Er, when you flew back..."

"From where?"

Christ, Sherlock looked so perplexed, "Well, from the Czech Republic."

John jumps up, coming close to Sherlock, looking him in the eyes. Jesus, the detective is shaking as he holds on to the letters, but he isn't breaking eye contact. From what John can tell, Sherlock's eyes are open and true. John walks a few steps away, hands behind his back, at attention. 

" _Whose mission_ was it to the Czech Republic?" John used the same tone Major Sholto had used with him, the same inflection Captain John Watson used with impertinent green recruits. 

"Well...we.."

"No _we_ Mr. Holmes. Whose mission was it?" 

Sherlock had a look on his face that could only be described as dopey. 

"The mission...was..."

"You're a genius, Mr. Holmes?"

Silence. 

"Answer the question. Yes or no."

"Yes."

"Then why, Mr. Holmes, can you not answer a simple question on whose international mission you just barged in on? You thought it'd be funny? Fucking hilarious?"

"No."

"Then answer my goddamn question. Whose mission?"

"Yours."

"Wrong, Mr. Holmes. Again."

Sherlock is now leaning forward on the couch, his eyes completely open, searching John's face. 

"I don't understand."

"Then why in the fuck, civilian, would you jump in on a goddamn military operation that you, first of all, don't fucking understand, and secondly, that you don't even know who the commanding officer is?"

"But we have always..."

"No. Listen. And listen good. Did commander Mycroft invite you to join? Did he tell you to meet us at the rendezvous point?"

Sherlock is out of his depth. He is exactly where John wants him to be. 

"I just..."

"This was a military operation. And as much as you believe yourself to be above every fucking rule known to man, this was run by ranked military personnel. We moved you _out of the way_ because you are a civilian, Sherlock Holmes, and had no business being anywhere near this mission."

Sherlock is sliding forward off the couch, long legs collapsing onto the floor. "But, John, I was afraid..." 

"Captain Dr. John Hamish Watson,"  
John bends down to where Sherlock is on the floor, looking into his face. John knows that look on Sherlock; he's trying to read him, interpret his voice, his clothing, his actions. John will give him no such satisfaction. Years of military training has taught him how to show nothing while dressing down a lower ranking official. 

"Captain Dr. John Hamish Watson." He repeats himself, punctuating every word. 

Sherlock starts again, shaky, "John..."

John sucks in a breath. 

Sherlock repeats, "Captain Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"Why were you afraid, civilian? Does that justify what you did? Did you not understand the full UK government was behind distracting you, getting you out of the way, and moving this mission forward? Without you being part of it?"

"Distracting me?" Sherlock is holding the letters tight to his chest. Tears begin to trickle down his face. John can't stop just yet. He needs Sherlock to understand. 

"Commander Mycroft and I were planning this for weeks. Mycroft has been for longer; since Magnussen had you on his radar. I made you pay attention to me and not to our planning. I was distracting you. You almost destroyed the entire mission and put lives at risk by jumping in. You will not-"

John stops speaking. 

Sherlock has his forehead on the floor, grabbing at the scrap of fabric around his neck. He is wailing, sobbing, grasping for air. 

John has not heard anyone wail like that since the night the fifth Northumberland fusiliers were ambushed, when Corporal Joel screamed out the moment he saw their doctor slump over in a flash of blood and shrapnel.


	43. Chapter 43

Sherlock wants to hold John the minute he sees him, but he can tell John is angry with him. More angry than when he returned from being dead. 

He follows, wanting to talk, but he doesn't know what to say. His heart is pounding, bursting out of his chest, to finally see his silhouette in the dark, to hear his breathing. 

He doesn't know why John is so angry. The plan still worked. John isn't hurt, Mycroft isn't hurt, Sherlock isn't hurt. Why is he angry?

Sherlock understands what it must be like to be in other peoples' brains. John is talking, exactly how Mycroft would talk to him when he was little. He doesn't understand. John didn't want him there? Didn't want him to be with him? Distraction? John was just distracting him, with what?

Oh. 

John didn't love him. 

John was using love, sentiment, as a way to keep Sherlock from seeing their plan. John and Mycroft. 

Human error. 

Sherlock didn't know why he is hurt and angry; he'd done this to Janine. He'd used Molly's feelings to get what he wanted. He'd always used people. 

John had just done the same. 

John had simply learned a page from Sherlock's book. 

Sherlock had always kept his feelings inside, hidden. 

This time, his body, his mind, betrays him. John is in front of him, telling him he never loved him, but Sherlock is holding declarations of love in his hands and John's scent around his neck. It didn't compute. 

Sherlock's heart is breaking and his mind palace begins to crumble. All he can do is put his head down and scream.


	44. Chapter 44

John wants Sherlock to understand how he acted recklessly. 

He did not realize how harsh he'd been. 

He expected anger, a fight, defense of actions; John does not know how to react with Sherlock wailing and crying on the floor. It takes him longer than he would like to admit for him to process what Sherlock is doing, and another minute for John to believe what Sherlock is doing isn't pre-rehearsed. 

He feels like an ass. An absolute dick. 

"Sherlock," he sinks to the floor, sitting beside him, "Sherlock, no."

John lays on the floor, wrapping himself around him, "Sshh. Why are we hurting each other? I'm sorry. I just. Jesus, Sherlock." 

Sherlock isn't answering. John wipes his tears with his Tshirt that's around his neck and pushes back his curls, "I love you. It terrified me. You. And Moriarty. It hurt. I wanted...wanted to save you for once."

Sherlock continues to cry, but more quietly. Jesus, what had come over him. What was wrong with him. He loved this man. Why would he act this way if he loved him?

"Sherlock, you know I'm a terrible actor. You know that, right?" John continues to pet him, smoothing his hair, rubbing his shoulders, "Please, sit on the couch with me. Please."

Sherlock is shaking so badly that John has to help him up. John pulls Sherlock to him, leaning him against him, then begins again to stroke his hair and kiss his brow. 

"You scared me, Sherlock. I never want to see you in the same room as Moriarty again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." John holds him, rubbing his back, "I didn't handle it right. I wasn't faking loving you, ok? I can't fake that. I was just intimate with you more quickly to cover up what Mycroft and I were doing. That's all. Please. Please, I love you my prince, forgive me. If you can't forgive me, I understand. I mean every word. Every word I said, everything in the letters."

John watches Sherlock's face. They are both crying. God, what's wrong with him? 

Now John slides to the floor, on his knees, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. He puts his head on Sherlock's lap. John feels the detective's lovely fingers timidly stroke his hair.


	45. Chapter 45

"John." Sherlock whispers. John tightens his grip around Sherlock's waist. 

"Sherlock, forgive me, you scared me," John kisses the tops of his thighs, near his knees, then picks his head up to look in Sherlock's eyes, "Do you understand? This was a full military operation. I didn't...couldn't watch you..." John puts his hand on Sherlock's left cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, rolling his jaw into John stroking his neck with his thumb. 

"John," Sherlock closes his eyes a moment, then opens them, "You are so easy to love. You have so many friends, and can make new friends easily." Sherlock kisses John's thumb that is rubbing the side of his face, "You're my only friend. I will never have another _you._ "

"Sherlock, my dear Sherlock" John moves up from the floor, straddling Sherlock's lap. His knees are on either side of Sherlock's thighs. John wraps his arms around him, pressing his chest, his groin, against every bit of him against him. 

"My prince, forgive me," John kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his neck; he sits into Sherlock's lap deeply, wrapping his arms around him, putting his fingers under his shirt to touch his skin. John stops to take Sherlock's face in his hands. 

"Please, do you forgive me?"

"Yes, John. My John." Sherlock surprises John by flipping them both so John is laying underneath him on the couch, every bit of their bodies touching. 

"Yes, I am _yours._ "


	46. Chapter 46

John lays under Sherlock, rubbing his hands under his shirt, feeling his ribs, kissing him deeply. He pulls his coat off of him and attempts to lay it over the back of the couch, but it slips to the floor. Sherlock giggles. 

"Sorry, my, uh, little cabin in the woods doesn't have much furnishings. It's missing a coatrack, among other things." John grins, kissing Sherlock, rubbing his pelvis up against Sherlock. They moan into each other's mouths. 

Sherlock lays down fully on John, resting on him, so he can unclench his fingers and take the letters out of his palm. They are destroyed, shredded in ribbons from moisture and tears. 

"Oh no," Sherlock lays his head on John's chest, his ear on his heart, and John feels moisture spreading on his shirt. 

"Sweetheart, my prince," John runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls, opens Sherlock's palms so he can link his fingers through Sherlock's. The shreds of letters flutter to the wooden floor.

"I have the words in the letters memorized. I love you, I forgive you, I will always be there for you," John kisses the top of Sherlock's head, "What would your letters say?"

"Mycroft."

"Sorry, what?" 

John's breath hitches as he feels Sherlock's fingers digging around near his hip. Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket.

"Yes," Sherlock huffs, "you've called at an inconvenient time. Can't you tell by my voice that I've found him?"

John hears a helicopter in the distance, approaching closer. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then rests his chin on John's chest so he can look in his eyes. Sherlock is searching John's face, eyes moving across every part of him, while he speaks. 

"Mycroft, found us a safe house. I can play being hospitalized as long as I don't leave, and you can stay with me. Until Baker Street is repaired. Will you..."

"Yes, Sherlock," John kisses him as he hears the roar of the helicopter settling a few hundred yards away.


	47. Chapter 47

John and Sherlock sit close in the helicopter, in comfortable silence. John's eyes are beginning to close, so Sherlock wraps his arm around him. John grasps the lapels of Sherlock's coat to keep from slipping from his seat when the helicopter pitches. John begins to fall asleep on his shoulder as the helicopter flies a more even path towards London. 

As the city lights begin to dot the horizon and wash out the stars, Sherlock receives another text from his brother. 

_How is your good Doctor? MH_

_Asleep on my shoulder. Do you need something? SH_

_I just worry about you two. Constantly. MH_

_No more secrets from each other, Mycroft. We won't survive. It will kill us. SH_

_Secrets between you and I? Or you and your Doctor? MH_

_Yes. SH_


	48. Chapter 48

John and Sherlock's bolt-hole is a small, one room flat with CCTV access from all angles. After the helicopter lands on a rooftop at the edge of London, they climb down the six flights of stairs to the ground level. Mycroft's car takes the to their temporary residence. 

John is nearly delirious; Sherlock has to guide him to the bed by his hips and under his arms. After he collapses on the bed, Sherlock removes his coat and his shoes; he's too heavy and uncooperative to move him any further. 

In the living room are bags of their personal effects. John's phone and laptop are plugged in and charging and waiting on the card table set up in the small sitting room. Sherlock flicks through the messages that came in while they were gone. 

Multiple messages from Lestrade and other friends asking if they were ok after the apartment blast (at least until the news came on indicating there were no casualties), a message from Mrs. Hudson asking John _Have you heard from our Sherlock?_ , and finally a message from Mary from three days ago:

_You know I wouldn't bomb the flat. Especially if there was a chance you were inside._


	49. Chapter 49

John reaches over to the right side of the bed, reaching for (Sherlock? A pillow? A blanket?) He feels empty air and then realizes he's tumbling off of the bed onto the floor. His backside and hip fall with an enthusiastic thud and he knows he'll have a bruise. 

He hears muffled yelling from somewhere overhead. "John, John. John!" 

John throws his arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light. Jesus, why does he feel drugged. Too much adrenaline, anger, and guilt over a short amount of time? Sherlock is rubbing his hands up and down his biceps, his arms, "John, are you ok?"

John moves his hand to look up at Sherlock so he doesn't frighten him. His left leg is dangling off the bed and he's twisted at a strange angle. Sherlock is kneeling over him, his beautiful eyes are gray this morning. 

"You're so beautiful," John murmurs, running his hand quickly through Sherlock's curls. 

Sherlock scrunches his eyebrows together and puts his face closer to John's, "Did you hit your head, John?"

"Noooo. I fell on my bum." God, what the hell was wrong with him? He tried to bite his lip to keep from giggling. 

"John." Sherlock sat beside him, moving his legs and his arms, asking John to look in his eyes, "John, I'm not a doctor. Can you tell me how you feel? Do you have a concussion?"

"I dunno. I think m'tired. And happy." John tries to sit up a bit but the room begins to spin, "Jesus." He lays himself back down. 

Sherlock puts himself down beside him, turning his head to look in his eyes. He feels his pulse on his neck, his wrist. He rubs his fingertips up and down the inside of his arms, "You're dehydrated and you may have caught something from drinking the river water. Get back in bed."

Sherlock's reaches under him to grab around his chest and place him as gently as possible on the bed. John grabs his fingers before he can move away to go to the kitchenette. 

"Don't leave." 

"John, it's one room, you can see me. I'll be right back."

John picks his head up slightly to watch Sherlock, but his head is spinning again so he lays it back down. He peeks at Sherlock's back, reaching up in a nearly empty cabinet to find a glass. He always had loved watching Sherlock play violin, watching his back sway with the pull of the bow. He has a panicked feeling.

"Sherlock!!" He yells as loudly as he can. He sees Sherlock jump, spilling water out of the glass he's carrying towards him. 

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock sets the glass of water down on the nightstand and strokes John's hair. 

John whispers loudly, as if this were a great secret, "Where is your violin? Did we forget your violin?" 

Sherlock looks into John's eyes, "John, what are you talking about?"

"Your violin. You're so beautiful when you play it. I would watch you play, and you wouldn't pay attention to how much I would stare at you because you'd be playing. I love you all the time but when you play, your back, your arms..." John trails off, reaching to stroke Sherlock's face, but his depth perception is off. He nearly pokes Sherlock in the eye with his finger. 

"Jesus, John," Sherlock quickly dials his phone, "Mycroft, please, can you come here?" 

John cannot really form a sentence, but he wants to touch Sherlock. He reaches for him, but he can't quite make his fingers match where Sherlock is. 

John whispers again, "Stop moving. I want to touch you. I can't touch you if you're moving." John closes his eyes, feeling another wave of nausea and dizziness overtake him. He hears Sherlock leave the room, rummage in the kitchen, hears him talking on the phone. (Talking? Is he talking on the phone? Or to John? He can't tell. Everything is too loud and fuzzy.) Sherlock brings John a bowl. (Why a bowl?)

John jolts awake with a stomach cramp. He grabs at the bowl that Sherlock has placed near him and wretches into it. Vile liquid comes up, and John feels cold. 

The floor moves sideways as John puts the bowl on the floor. He tries to reach for the water Sherlock placed on the nightstand but he can't quite make his fingers work the way they should, and they slip, the glass of water tipping onto the floor. He puts his head down on his arm, breathing deeply, trying to calm the spinning and ringing in his ears.

The light dims, and he feels fingers against his neck. The fingers are cool, and comforting. (Sherlock's? Is Sherlock still here? Is he on the phone?) He can hear talking, mumbling, whispering; he can't quite make out the words or decide if he should reply. His tongue is dry, his throat is warm, and all he can feel is fingers on his neck and the sensation that he is in waves. 

"Are we on a boat, Sherlock?" is what John mumbles, but his throat feels so scratchy he's not sure if he can be understood. John reaches, trying to find the person next to him, and touches a leg, a knee, patting it. He's trying to get his mind to orient to what is up and what is down; In a fleeting panic he hopes the person next to him is Sherlock. 

John hears more mumbling, talking (Mycroft?) and arguing (yes, must be Mycroft) and he feels a cool rag on his neck. He hears a female voice and he panics, (God, no, not Mary. Please, not Mary. Keep her away from Sherlock!)

He doesn't realize he's yelled out loud until Mycroft is near him, Sherlock is whispering somewhere. He can't open his eyes. Everything hurts. 

"John. Dr. Watson. Listen to me. Mary is not here. We won't let her anywhere near here. There is a nurse here to give you an IV. My little brother doesn't want to risk you going to the hospital, I need you to calm down." 

John keeps his eyes scrunched shut; he grabs onto someone's (shirt? Pant leg?) as he tries to stop the spinning. He remembers days riding in Humvees, rolling over sand and through towns like waves, moving against and with the heated metal and the arid, dry heat. If he couldn't see outside the Humvee window he would get dizzy and his eyesight would narrow to a small pinprick. John wills himself to open his eyes, to see where he is, but he can't. He continues to hold onto the fabric (God, he hopes it's Sherlock....)

He screams as he feels a poke in his arm (am I being shot at?) and suddenly he feels arms and legs and kisses on his cheeks and God he hopes it's Sherlock and not Mycroft. 

A woman wearing perfume is near him, Jesus (Get Mary out of here! I want Sherlock!) and John feels arms and legs grip him tighter. He feels kisses ghosting against his jaw, his hairline, his lips. There are muddled noises, talking, as if through glass, and after a while the room stops spinning as much. He doesn't want this woman near him, and as her perfume waifs closer John tries to move, tries to yell and warn Sherlock but he is too sleepy. Too warm. His jaw won't open. He hopes Sherlock is safe.


	50. Chapter 50

John is shaking, reaching his arms out, moving his fingers. He feels along the bed sheets, runs his fingers against his arms, and feels tape and something itching. John starts to pull at the tape and he hears Sherlock's voice in his ear, "Sshh, John, leave it alone. You're ok."

John feels along the bed, grabs Sherlock's arm. Sherlock is tucked in behind his back. The room is dark when he opens his eyes. His eyeballs move to search the room and dizziness forces him to rollover nearly on his stomach. His forehead comes in contact with Sherlock's hastily placed forearm over John's right bicep. 

"Owww," John moans, rubbing his head.

"Sorry, John, trying to keep you from poking your IV."

"What? IV?" He rolls back into Sherlock's chest, grabbing into him, breathing, willing the nausea and room spinning to slow down. 

"You're dehydrated. Do you remember? I'm here. Mycroft brought a home nurse to help...."

John pitches wildly, crying out again, "Oh God, not Mary, please, leave Sherlock be..." John begins crying again, rolling, and is moving so much his IV is threatening to pull out. 

"Ssshh. John, Mary is not here. You'll have a male nurse. Just you and I are here. Just you and I."

"You safe, Sh'lock?"

"Yes, love, I'm safe."

John giggles, huffs out his breath. His eyes are still shut, but he turns towards Sherlock, "You called me, you called me 'love'."

"Yes..."

"My sweet prince," John huffs out as he falls into a deeper sleep.


	51. Chapter 51

Sherlock continues to stroke John's face, his hair, trying his best to calm him. He's never been at anyone's bedside before, never worked on comforting anyone during nightmares. He remembers bits and pieces of his father rocking him to sleep when he would cry out in the middle of the night, afraid of the dark, or of noises; he always felt better with his dad just being there. He never recalls being there for someone the way his dad was there for him. 

Sherlock considers how trusting John is, to just allow him, in this delirious state, to comfort him and hold him. He'd panicked when John had lashed out as he and Mycroft and the nurse tried to get the IV drip started. He'd been pushing them away, but then he'd heard John cry out for Mary, and Sherlock jumped away, ready to run from the room. When he'd realized John was scared that Mary was in the room, that she was coming for Sherlock, he'd plunged back on the bed and grabbed as tightly onto him as he could; held him so completely still that Mycroft and the nurse could quickly find a vein. 

Mycroft had chastised him, "For God's sake, Sherlock, let go a bit. The poor man does need to breathe." Sherlock had relaxed his grip slightly. As John began to sleep, with the female nurse gone, Mycroft agreed to find a male nurse instead. 

Now, John was in Sherlock's arms, snuggled right up to him, every part if their bodies touching. John's back to Sherlock's front. They were alone in the quiet flat. Hidden from the outside world, just the two of them. 

Sherlock wonders what John is dreaming, with his eyelashes fluttering and his hands making small movements. He isn't sure if petting John's head is helping, but it gives him something to do while he sleeps. He memorizes the smile lines on his face, the tan lines on his neck, his longer bit of sandy, gray hair that is curling just behind his ear. Sherlock takes his fingertip and runs it along the back of John's left ear; the skin is soft there. John giggles. 

"You're ticklin'me," John mumbles into Sherlock's arm; it's still laid over John's arm to protect his IV. 

"I'm sorry," Sherlock withdraws his fingers from John's hair. 

"No, no. It's nice."

Sherlock takes his hand and pats John's hip, "How are you feeling,?"

"I've been better. I've been worse," John tries to turn to face Sherlock, but the room starts to spin again, "Oh, Jesus." 

"You'll start to feel better. The nurse will be here soon, and will give you some more medicine," Sherlock rubs circles into John's back, kissing his ear. 

"We've got to come up with a plan, you and I," John says, "Together." He grips onto Sherlock's arm tightly. 

"Yes. When you're better. Tomorrow?" He kisses John's ear, the nape of his neck. 

"Yes. But we have to agree on it, together?"

"Yes, together." 

John hugs Sherlock to him tightly. Sherlock continues to lightly stroke John's hair. They do not talk or move from the bed until the nurse and Mycroft pay another visit, bringing food and more medicine.


	52. Chapter 52

John wakes, urgently needing to use the restroom. He tries to pull himself up, but his legs are wobbly and his arms shake; there's an IV pole in his way. He feels Sherlock pull away from him and come over to his side, walking with him and pushing along the IV pole. 

In the restroom, he sits to relieve himself and Sherlock rubs his head, his neck. John's mouth is dry and tastes coppery. There is a glass of water in his hand; Sherlock is making him drink.

John allows Sherlock to guide him, help him every step, as he washes up and changes clothes. When he's redressed, John stands as tall as he can and holds Sherlock tight, kissing him on his neck and collarbone. Sherlock kisses him back, on the cheek, and guides him to the couch. 

They sit together, side by side, and John wonders how he kept himself from touching Sherlock all these years. Their hands wind around each other, their fingers touch one another's faces, they talk as they've always done but they touch as much as they can. John still feels a little dizzy but he's not sure if it's the illness or having Sherlock so close, his eyes completely focused on John. 

"We need to go on a proper date, Sherlock."

"What, now?"

John laughs. He watches Sherlock laugh, his eyes sparkling and face crinkling up. 

"No, just in general. In the future. Go out, as a real couple, and eat, watch a movie, and have a date," John fluffs Sherlock's hair, pulling up on his arm. He tugs on his IV line, wincing in pain. 

"We normally do that, John, when we aren't running through the wilderness or hopping planes to other countries."

John and Sherlock pitch into a fit of giggles. This is what John loves and adores; they can laugh about the most inappropriate things. Murders, running after cabbies, shooting at people, there is no subject off limits to them finding hilarious. 

John pulls himself up and over so he is sitting on Sherlock's lap, not straddling him, so his arm is still free and facing the IV. He wraps his other arm around Sherlock's neck and pulls him in tightly, kissing him with his tongue and nipping his lip with his teeth. Sherlock moans and grabs John tightly around the waist, kissing his cheek, eyelids, neck. 

"God, Sherlock, I love you."

Sherlock looks into John's eyes then answers him with a deeper kiss, it's sloppy, and Sherlock tries to pull John to lay down. John reminds him of his IV so Sherlock curses, sitting back up, pulling down John's shirt to kiss his chest. John palms Sherlock's erection through his trousers and he moans into John's skin as he kisses every inch of him he can reach while tugging at his shirt while leaving the IV alone. 

They hear the door click open before Sherlock has a chance to put John's shirt back down. 

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, the man's recovering from dehydration and a nasty virus. Can you not keep your hands off him for a moment?" Mycroft walks into the room with bags in his hands and a male nurse in tow. John can't remember a time he's ever seen Mycroft carry anything but an umbrella. 

Like a petulant child caught sneaking sweets, "It was John," which causes John to go into a fit of giggles and bury his head in Sherlock's neck. 

"Nurse, you can probably remove the IV as based on his activities it seems he's quite recovered," Mycroft huffs as he goes to the kitchenette to put away the food and supplies. The nurse, male, burly, no resemblance to Mary at all, takes out his IV quickly and leaves. John flexes his arm, now free of the bandages, and has a clear line of sight to what Mycroft is doing. John is delighted to see Mycroft has bought his favorite beer. 

"No John, no alcohol for you." Sherlock chastises, bopping him on the nose with his index finger. John remembers Janine sitting on his lap, and Sherlock in a similar pose with her. 

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock strokes John's cheek. 

"Nothing...I was..." John remembers his promise, their promise, of together, "Well. I was remembering when you did something like that to Janine, and it just made me feel..."

Sherlock takes John's face in his hands, "You're not a case, John. You're John. My John." Sherlock kisses him deeply. 

John hears Mycroft slam his palm against the kitchen countertop, "For God's sake this isn't going to work if you two can't keep your hands off each other for two minutes. Sit down like adults and let's discuss our plans."

"You're just jealous!" Sherlock shouts in his direction. His mouth is pink and puffy from kisses and stubble burn; John doesn't want to stop kissing him but he allows Sherlock to help him off his lap and sit him next to him on the couch. 

Mycroft sits in a smaller chair across from them; John has never seen him look more tired and annoyed. 

"Focus, children. The next months leading to Christmas are critical."


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **please heed tag warnings and possible violent triggers here on out. Exploring Mary's violent past**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed tag warnings.

Magnussen's mind palace is cluttered, yet organized exactly to his liking. Statues, photos, projectors; anything that can document and solidify his feelings on a subject has paper and an object association to hold onto the memory. An anchor. 

He's reviewing the Mary Morstan file. In his hand is a copy of the wedding telegram:

_"To Mary, lots of love poppet, oodles of love and heaps of good wishes, from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this..."_

His anchor for the Mary Morstan file, what ties it all together in a bow for him, is a large hunting knife. The imagery to keep it tied to her file is her using that knife 7 years ago to slit her husband's throat and then drown her 6 year old child in their tub. 

She walked away from their corpses into Moriarty's network again without a second thought.

"Naughty, naughty girl," he clicks, reviewing the data. 


	54. Chapter 54

Since they were little, Sherlock followed Mycroft around. He wanted to be just like Mycroft; his mannerisms, his voice, the way he walked. Their parents, especially dad, encouraged Sherlock to be his own person. Sherlock wanted to be a pirate, but act like his big brother. 

Mycroft isn't sure when Sherlock began to shut himself off from the world, but it was when they were children. They were teased mercilessly for their intellect. It didn't bother Mycroft at all. He didn't care; his thoughts and mind were otherwise occupied. 

Sherlock, however, was heartbroken. He didn't understand why he wasn't liked, why kids hated how he knew everything, and why he didn't understand girls. It was maddening. He did his best to imitate Mycroft in this; not caring, marching along and explaining he was really a sociopath. Mycroft is not sure where that idea popped in his head, but he never corrected him. 

It was a rubbish self-diagnosis that he'd read in a book. Sherlock was simply smart and didn't understand people because he never had friends. He was intimidating and he used intimidation and his intellect like armor to keep others at bay. He would cry at home, wonder why he had no friends; why he was always alone.

Mycroft, mummy, or daddy couldn't help him, but they gave advice or comfort where they could. Mycroft never admitted that some days he cried, too, along with Sherlock, as he would let mummy rock him to sleep. It was a puzzle, _the_ puzzle, Sherlock couldn't solve. 

Until John Watson. 

Now, in this small, rented flat, Mycroft observes his little brother. His little brother who never fit in, his little brother who never opened up, is now this man who can hardly keep his hands to himself regarding his beloved Doctor. He is happy. Sherlock is truly, dizzily, happy in love and he's doing his best to focus on Mycroft but they both know Sherlock, for once, is less than focused on the case. 

John, who is more used to physical affection and relationships, is keeping his attention a little more; but only slightly. They lean into each other, they give one another sidelong glances, they pat or grab one another's hands when they feel the other is upset about the discussion. 

Mycroft equates it to watching a couple waltz, a couple that's been together so long they know when to sway, step forward, or back. No words. Nudges and anticipatory movements from two halves of the whole. John tells Sherlock an inappropriate joke in the middle of their macabre discussion of Mary and Moriarty and Magnussen. Sherlock laughs and gently pokes John in the ribs. John laughs, rubbing Sherlock's curly hair, and Sherlock tilts his head into the touch of his fingers. They forget for a few moments that Mycroft is there, but Mycroft bites his tongue and just observes. 

In his way, Mycroft also loves John Watson.


	55. Chapter 55

John is desperately trying to keep his hands to himself. They are discussing Jim Moriarty, Mary Morstan, Charles Augustus Magnussen and the most insane ideas to date. He knows Mycroft isn't telling him the full story about Mary's past; his eyes are half lidded and his lips pressed tightly whenever John tries to pry him for information. 

"Mycroft," He feels Sherlock's hand rest on his thigh, and wrap his fingers through his own, "How dangerous is she?"

"John." He gives him a final, dark look, "You will be alone with her no longer than necessary. Only at the very end of the plan will you reconcile. We are all working together; no secrets, but some pieces I must keep to myself for security and to ensure your safety. If you don't know, no one can pressure you for that information."

"Are the code words still the same?"

"Yes. Between you and I, John." Sherlock huffs. 

"Sherlock," John removes his hand from his to ruffle his hair, "Mycroft and I can have one secret, can't we?"

The detective gives a pouty look. 

"Next piece is Moriarty. Mary is meeting him to discuss their plans. He's not shared this information with us. We will be there as well. We do need to keep her alive to make for sure she's not carrying John's child; though we know that's highly unlikely. I believe that's part of her reasoning. Protection."

Mycroft leaves them. They are to await further instructions; Mycroft will be bringing supplies. They are stuck here; they cannot leave. The destroyed Baker Street flat serves as a cover for their absence. Mrs. Hudson is safe with family for the time being. 

John looks at Sherlock and then moves closer. Sherlock has a devious look on his face, "I made Mycroft buy us supplies," He laughs, bounding into the kitchen and then rustling in the bedroom. Sherlock returns to the living room to help John up off the couch.

"Is this what we're going to do while we await Mycroft's orders?" John asks, holding onto Sherlock, grinning. 

"Problem?" Sherlock kisses John before he can answer, still guiding him to the bed by his waist and his hips. He's rubbing his hands up and down his sides, pulling at John's clothing and his own. Before Sherlock can complete the task, John feels dizzy. 

"I need to sit," John reaches back for the bed, nearly falling on the bed sheets and blankets crumpled on the floor. 

"Are you feeling ok enough for..." Sherlock looks into his eyes. 

"No, I'm fine. I just. You are making me dizzy. Still not used to being able to touch you as much as I want."

They climb onto the bed, each on their side, and Sherlock looks absolutely amazed at John. He can hardly stand to have the gray/blue/green eyes focused on him; he wants to kiss every part of Sherlock, pull him so tightly to him. He begins to reach for Sherlock when he stops him, putting a hand on his chest and his face. 

"I'm not good at this, John. But I want you to know I love you, and I'll do my best," Sherlock kisses him until he's breathless; John is grateful they're on the bed or he would've collapsed. They finish pulling every inch of clothing off of each other. John looks at their bodies, naked, aroused, covered in scars. John's skin a warmer, rosy color; Sherlock's a paler, sleeker, cool tone. 

"We are like the sun," John points to himself, "And the moon," indicating Sherlock. 

"We orbit each other," Sherlock adds. 

"Well, that's not really how it works," John grins. 

"Works for you and I," Sherlock laughs, stroking John's ribs, his cheeks, his thighs. John moans into Sherlock's mouth, "You have lost weight, John Watson. You need to eat more."

John rolls his eyes, pouncing on top of Sherlock, holding his hands above his head. Sherlock wiggles happily, but he's pinned underneath his doctor. John kisses his collarbone, his neck, his chest, all at a maddeningly slow pace. He wants to love Sherlock, make love with him, as they've been so hurried and desperate before. 

He thinks of what parts of Sherlock are his favorite: definitely, his long, gorgeous fingers, his elegant neck, his hips, oh his arse is amazing...

"There you are," Sherlock pants as John continues kissing down his body; John's erection is drumming against Sherlock's inner thigh. John rubs the two of them together and Sherlock arches; his hands are still pinned, "Oh, Christ. John. John, my John," John has to let go as he moves down Sherlock's body; to his navel, his trail of hair. He takes Sherlock in his mouth while rubbing his thighs, his beautiful arse, Sherlock pops himself up on his forearms to watch John kiss and suck him senseless. 

"John, please, I want to, want to come, with you, please," Oh, Sherlock is begging and John cannot deny him. Sherlock passes him the lubricant and John slicks his two first fingers, entering Sherlock slowly, as he's entering Sherlock, he's teasing the head of his cock with his tongue. Sherlock is grinding himself in circles, flushed. 

"John, I know you're trying to go slow but please," John grins. 

"Beg me, Sherlock," he growls, digging his fingers into his lover more deeply. 

"John, God, please, fuck me. God, begging you," John rubs lubricant on himself as slowly as possible, teasing him,"This is for the full severed head you left in our fridge,"

"Oh Jesus, John," Sherlock pulls up to try and grab at John, to pull them together, but John blocks him with his knees. 

"This," John teases, lowering himself so closely to his entrance, just teasing him with the tip, "Is for never paying for taxis."

"John, please. I'm sorry, God." Sherlock is wrecked. 

"And this," John plunges into him, deeply, Sherlock instinctively wrapping his legs and arms around him, pulling his hips in closer, "is because I love you. I love you, Sherlock Holmes." They kiss, teeth and tongue and push and pull into one another. They are so wound up it doesn't last as long as either would like. Sherlock arches, screams out so loudly John has to silence him with a bruising kiss. John feels Sherlock's heartbeat and his body pulsing around him. He's fighting off another wave of dizziness as he comes, crying into Sherlock's shoulder, biting and kissing at his beautiful collarbone. 

They shudder, shake, holding each other. John has never, ever, felt anything so wild and gorgeous as Sherlock slack in his arms. A few tears trickle from his eyes and Sherlock kisses them away. 

They clean up hastily and wrap their bodies around each other other, Sherlock stroking John's face. 

"You're my sun," Kissing him deeply, rubbing his back. 

"You're my moon. My sweet prince," John playfully kisses his cheek, grabbing his beautiful arse one more time. 

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock huffs, pushing his sweat damp curls off his forehead. 

"No, you are."

They sleep in each other's arms until morning.


	56. Chapter 56

The next few weeks pass without much incident. 221B is being slowly repaired, John and Mary text or call occasionally under the rouge of working on their relationship. John has become used to Sherlock being near him morning, day, and night; he knows his detective, without cases, is becoming bored and restless. John does his best to keep his mind from being bored by discussing the case. Sometimes it works, to John's amazement, Sherlock would rather kiss, make love, or cuddle with him. They both feel the countdown of the clock; eventually, near Christmas, John will have to return to Mary. He wants to enjoy every bit with his detective. 

Mycroft texts John and Sherlock that they need to be ready to move within the next two weeks. His intelligence is sketchy; the sources aren't quite sure when Jim and Mary are set to meet about their secret plan. 

"I need to talk to my network John,"  
Sherlock huffs the Thursday afternoon of the first week of being 'ready.' 

"Absolutely not, Sherlock. You're supposed to be in hospital."

After a minor spat about what to ask, where to go, and who to talk to, John is out the door. He goes to the drug house where John had found Sherlock, where he'd first met Billy. He walks in the dimly lit crack house; calls out for Billy. No answer. 

He walks room by room, goes upstairs. Upstairs, a stench reaches his nostrils and nearly bowls him over. 

In the room where he'd found Sherlock (where he now understands Sherlock had to do drugs to keep his mind off of John's marriage), there are seven crackheads laying on the floor. Face up. Lined up. Dead at least four days by the stench and decay. 

Each have a shot in their chest, between their pectorals, to the right of their heart. 

John's vision darkens, he has trouble breathing. He's been to war, he's been to crime scene after crime scene, but all he can see, looking at the bodies with chest gun shots, are 7 Sherlocks lined in a row. Laying down in order just as Sherlock had lain in Magnussen's office. 

He runs down the stairs, outside into fresh air, and vomits on the kerb in front of the house. He puts his palms to his eyes to remember if any of the bodies resembled Billy; he doesn't think any of them were skinny enough. 

He calls Mycroft, calls Sherlock. They'll have to get a good disguise for Sherlock, but he has to come see what's going on. CCTV reveals no clues. 

John waits for his detective to arrive. He hides in the small parking lot to the east, hidden by trash bins. He breathes through his mouth, trying to clear the images from his mind.


	57. Chapter 57

Mycroft and Sherlock arrive in a cab. They are both dressed as versions of Sherlock's Shezza disguise. 

As John is describing the scene and warning them of the smell in the building, Lestrade pulls up in his personal vehicle, with Molly climbing out of the passenger seat. Sherlock raises his eyebrows to give John a look, and he giggles. 

All five enter the crack house, move upstairs. The bodies are as they were when John entered not 15 minutes before. He still has to breathe through his nose and bite his cheek to keep tears from falling. He hears Lestrade huff "Jesus" and pull out a torch to more closely examine the bodies. 

Without warning, Mycroft takes out his phone and calls someone. He puts it on speaker for all to hear. It's the unmistakable voice of Jim Moriarty who answers. 

"Mr. Jim Moriarty," Mycroft clips, not even allowing the other man to start speaking, "I suggest you quit with the clandestine secrets. We have to work together."

John shuffles uncomfortably onto the balls of his feet. Jim starts to reply. 

Mycroft continues, cutting Jim off, "Mary Morstan and Charles Augustus Magnussen have killed 7 of your best London operatives."

At Jim's intake of breath, the older Holmes brother asks, "Do I have your full trust and cooperation now?"


	58. Chapter 58

John realizes he's loved Sherlock from the first crime scene, and he loves Sherlock so desperately, so achingly, he will do whatever needs to be done. 

He hates Jim's voice. His toes curl. His palms sweat. He smells chlorine. Again. (God, will it always be this way?) He has to remember to breathe. He tries to remember the Afghan dirt and sun, wishing the memories of Jim, and what he drove Sherlock to do, weren't more painful than being shot. More painful than believing he was dying. 

He can't look at Sherlock. He will break down and he has to hold it together. Mycroft and Jim are talking, but John can't understand the words. His focus is on breathing through his nose (as much as the smell is wretched) and out through his mouth. He bends his knees slightly, to keep blood flow moving, so he hopefully will not collapse. 

John feels fingers in his, arm around his shoulders, whispers in his ear, "It's ok, I've got you," Sherlock holds him tightly too him, supporting him up, "This is the only way, she's too dangerous."

"I can't lose you. I can't lose you, again," John buries his head into Sherlock's neck, lips nearly touching his ear. 

Sherlock squeezes his fingers, then brings his hand to John's chin to bring it up to look him in the eyes, "I can't lose you, either. I'm not going anywhere. Together." Sherlock kisses him quickly on the mouth, then smooths his hair back. They share a small smile. 

John turns outward, still with Sherlock's arm around him. He looks at the faces of Greg, Molly, and Mycroft; who is still talking to Jim on speaker. 

John is surprised to notice that none of them look very shocked at their display of affection.


	59. Chapter 59

After calling into the morgue, Mycroft texted one phrase to John and Sherlock: 'Levl 3 officer P.O.W.'

After two ambulances come and pick up the seven bodies, Sherlock and Molly head to St. Bart's. Together, they will process the information to see what they can glean; they doubt they'll obtain much, if anything. The seven operatives will most likely be off the grid and Mary's work will be untraceable. No marks on the slugs, no fingerprints. 

At the same time as the seven are being processed, Mycroft, Lestrade, and John are heading towards the Thames riverfront, near the Holborn Viaduct. They're searching for Billy. Questioning each member of the homeless network, handing out money to earn new information. 

When they'd nearly run out of money, they locate Billy talking to another homeless man. John ruffles his hair back off his forehead (Jesus, he needs a haircut) so he can clearly see the men in front of him. Billy's jumpy, nearly runs when Mycroft calls his name. 

As Billy turns around, John sees Moriarty is the one beside him, dressed in raggedy sweats. (God, he is so sick of being surprised by this man's face). He wants to lunge forward; Mycroft steadies his arm and nods at Lestrade to be quiet. 

"Is Seb?....was he one of the ones?" Moriarty's voice cracks, he runs his hands up and down his arms. (Are those honest to God tears? Jesus, he cared for someone?)

"No," Mycroft answers. John watches Moriarty relax. 

"Where is he? How do you know he's safe?" Moriarty gestures outward, raising his voice. Billy moves closer to him, John straightens his spine. 

Mycroft continues, "He's safe in my bolt hole. He will be well cared for and returned to you once this is all over."

"You won't hurt him?!" Moriarty was nearly in tears, his voice scratchy. He was desperate. 

"Here is my phone, video chat with him. See for yourself. We are doing this to ensure John and Sherlock's safety. We don't employ your methods, Mr. Jim Moriarty."

Jim's eyes shifted back and forth across the video image as they listened to Seb on speaker. He was either the finest actor (which he was) or he was insane with worry. Moriarty wraps his arms around himself, cradling his arms to his torso, leaning into the voice on the phone. His whispers were passionate, desperate, concerned. 

When Mycroft ended the call, he turned to Billy, "Is Moriarty telling the truth? Will he double cross us?"

"I deduce not," he said in his slow drawl, "His heartbeat and respiration indicate that he cares for, loves, this Seb very much. He will do what it takes to keep him safe from harm."


	60. Chapter 60

John cannot feel pity for Moriarty. He knows he should. He feels guilt pulling at his gut, but he pushes it away. Moriarty kept Sherlock from him, _his_ Sherlock from him; so many wasted hours of grief and pain after he'd jumped. John tries his best to hide his glee at Mycroft's master plan, but he knows the consulting criminal could tell he was enjoying it. Small paybacks. 

With this twist in the plans, Mycroft had solidified forever John's respect; he understands now why he holds such a high position in government. He's ruthless, cunning, and one step ahead. John's glad he's on his side. John trusts him with his life. 

Moriarty agrees to full cooperation with them in exchange for Seb's safety. Mycroft insists they need video of Moriarty to reveal his return to London at just the right moment. Lestrade agrees to film Moriarty when he's had a chance to clean himself and get himself put back together; he laments "Why am _I_ always the videographer?" 

Mycroft explains to them that the coroner will leak, through the network, that someone with Jim Moriarty's DNA and description was found shot in the drug den. Deception on top of deception. Mary will hear, and they will confirm, that she believes she killed Moriarty, even though her intention was just to unsettle him by taking out operatives. 

John watches Moriarty's face as he agrees to it all without question. He's lovesick, tired, nervous. He asks to speak to Seb again one more time, voice cracking. John expects Mycroft to take some pity, but he doesn't. Firmly, he explains that he will be rewarded with more and more visits with Seb the more he cooperates. 

John sniffs in a breath of air, trying to relax. He knows he's looked and felt just like Jim, willing to negotiate anything for love, willing to work with anyone. 

The soldier, the criminal, the sociopath, the assassin; all bound together and driven to insane measures because they're desperately, hopelessly, head over heels. 

John wishes Sherlock were here to share the joke; for now, he has to turn his head and purse his lips. 

It's a bit not good to start giggling here, right now.


	61. Chapter 61

John returns to the flat, exhausted. Moriarty is listed as dead. Again. (Jesus, how many times are people killed, commit suicide, then come back to life around here?) 

Sherlock is still at the morgue with Molly, so John decides to sleep. 

When he wakes, he hears Sherlock playing his violin. He hasn't heard him in a while; it's a slow, haunting song. John watches Sherlock play, the afternoon sun causing a slight glow around Sherlock's silhouette. John wants to wrap his arms around Sherlock, wants to kiss his neck and his curls that wrap on his nape. He doesn't want to interrupt his song. 

"It's okay, John," Sherlock barely pauses his bow, "I would like it if you held me." 

John takes off his shirt so he can more directly feel the silk and sinew of his lover's back. They hardly move; John keeps his ear pressed tightly to the back of his detective. John clearly hears his heartbeat, the bow pulling, the low notes resonating. He feels warm, and tired. John pulls Sherlock closer as tears trickle down his face and spreads over his shirt. 

"John, my love," the violin is laid aside, and Sherlock pulls John's face up to his, running his thumbs over his cheeks. "My love, what's wrong?"

"I don't....I don't know. I just...." John buries his face into the crook of Sherlock's arm, "I'm just sad for some reason. Sad for all the missed time...the way I've treated you...I don't know."

John tries to breathe as he feels more tears welling to the surface (is he always crying now?) and he grabs onto Sherlock tightly. Sherlock rubs his hands up and down John's back, kissing his forehead, his neck. He gently picks up his chin again, they are looking into each other's eyes. John is still gulping back sobs, now gripping Sherlock's arms. 

"There is nothing to forgive dear one," Sherlock reaches down and kisses John with heat, passion, tongues, and teeth, "I've loved you, I will love you, I forgive you." 

John pulls Sherlock back into his bedroom (their bedroom) peeling off Sherlock's shirt, grabbing at his pants, his belly. They giggle at each other, this is absolutely ridiculous; always murders and then laughing and making love, the two of them, the only two in the world. 

John pulls Sherlock down to the bed, "221B needs to hurry up and get repaired..." shoes, socks, everything is peeling off in a mad dash, "Even though you're taller than me, I'm going to carry you over the threshold and kiss you senseless..."

Sherlock looks up from kissing John's stomach. His eyes are wide, his face so innocent, sweet, "You mean it?" 

John feels unsure, the question means so much more than what Sherlock is asking, "What do _you_ mean?" Sherlock pulls on top of him, they are laying chest to chest, their thighs and legs and erections rubbed against one another; John finds it difficult to breathe, focus. 

"When you sent me to the hospital, for the plan, you told me you loved me, in the stairwell..."

"Yes?" John pushes Sherlock's curls away from his eyes. 

"You said you wanted to marry me? You still do?"

"Yes, my dear, my prince, my sweet prince,"

Sherlock's eyes are now filling with tears, "I thought it was part of the plan, or you forgot, or..." John pulls Sherlock's face down to his, kissing, nibbling at his lips, "Sherlock, Sherlock, the only thing keeping me from marrying you is being released from my current marriage. I am yours."

John is used to his lover moving quickly, but this time he cannot keep up; he is at his mercy. Sherlock lifts himself slightly on a knee, eyes open, grabbing for the lube on the bedside table. Breathless, aching, John watches his gorgeous detective slick his hole, moaning. 

"John, I want you to fill me, I want to feel you," Sherlock pulls John's cock up, so it is fully straight, then lowers himself onto him. It's so quick, so hot and tight, John hitches, grabs the sheets. Sherlock wraps himself over John, kissing and licking his chest, nipples, collarbone. 

"Oh my....S'lock...how could you think...ohmygod I love you." They are both desperately pushing into each other now, looking into each other's faces, open. John feels Sherlock's cock rubbing against his lower stomach and his hair tickles; he grinds up harder, pushing up with his thighs, lifting them both up off the bed. 

"Christ, John. Oh John. Johnmyjohn I feel you, so hard, Jesus."

John pulls Sherlock's curls so they are eye to eye, "Forever, you're mine, I'm yours. Please. Please. Say it, tell me,"

"ohmygod, yes John," Sherlock grinds down onto John, pulling friction against his own cock as John pushes deeply into him, "I'm yours, you're mine." 

John feels a push in his balls, and he spills into Sherlock, pushing himself back down onto the bed. He grabs Sherlock's cock, wet with sweat, pulling it from between their stomachs. He comes quickly; they grind their mouths into each other as Sherlock cries John's name, screams his name. 

John is shaking, holding onto Sherlock's hips, still feeling his orgasm wind down. They begin to breathe more slowly; John takes Sherlock's hand and leads him into the shower. His love is nearly asleep on his feet as he washes his curls, his stomach, his thighs; kissing every bit. 

"M'so tired," he yawns, as John ruffles his head and body with all the towels they have. He sits Sherlock on the small couch while he hastily changes the sheets. As he tucks Sherlock in, kissing his forehead, he sees a small note sticking out of the bottom of the door. John grabs it, reading:

"please be more quiet. WE HAVE YOUNG CHILDREN."

John bursts into another fit if giggles. His sides hurt. His eyes tear up. He goes to the bedroom to show it to Sherlock, but his dear prince is already fast asleep, breathing deeply. 

John ruffles his damp hair, goes and tapes the note to the fridge. 

He'll laugh with him about it tomorrow.


	62. Chapter 62

Sherlock wakes to the sound of rain against the windows and John humming against the back of his neck. He leans back into John's warmth, wrapping his fingers around John's forearms. 

"How did we survive, John, not touching each other for so long? I can't imagine not sleeping next to you, not kissing you."

John huffs in agreement, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's torso. They lay, listening to the rain, the light rhythm against the panes, the roof. Sherlock strokes John's fingers, his wrists, pulling them up to his mouth for light kisses. John puffs a breath out against his neck, "We don't have to wait any more. We don't have to be apart, or pretend we don't love one another."

John can't help rubbing himself against Sherlock; he's gorgeous, warm, and spread out tall, stretching all his limbs. He rolls so they are facing one another, and they stare, watching each other's eyes dart across their faces. Sherlock loves to watch John's face as he looks at him. 

Sherlock's always loved it, every moment, as John has been the kindest to him, from the first cab ride. Kind even in his correction at Sherlock's rude behavior. Kind in the face of Sherlock's depressed, dark moods, his addiction, his cowardice. John has always been brave, stood up to Sherlock and for himself, but he's always done so with the kindest methods possible. He desperately wants to stare at his eyes, his face, this absolute picture of the kindest man he's ever known for the rest of his life. 

A sharp knock at the door stops Sherlock from pulling John on top of him. "Mycroft." He huffed, pulling the covers over his head. John turns the covers back down to reach Sherlock's collarbone and neck, to leave some tickling, light kisses. "You still have to be nice. He's done a lot for us. Even though his timing seems to _always_ be absolute shit."

John yells at the door that they're dressing, though Sherlock seems to be moving especially slow to be rebellious. When Mycroft steps into the flat, John can feel the atmosphere change in the room. Sherlock's face is taut, lips pursed together. Mycroft is bringing bad news. 

"Brother, dear. It is time to move you to 'hospital' to recover from your injuries and to move John back into 221b." John sits on the small lounge. His heart is pounding, staring up at Sherlock; looking between him and his brother. They are resolved, sad, and John will be embarrassed to admit it later; he's a little happy that Sherlock looks so lovesick at the prospect of he and John being apart. 

"When?" Clips Sherlock, his eyes glancing quickly to John. He already knows the answer, written all over his brother's creased eyelids and tapping fingers. His eyes are filling, he was trying to be brave in front of his brother, but it was a losing battle. John snapped up, grabbed Sherlock's hand, rubbed the back of his neck. He'd always wanted to do that (kept himself from doing it, read the paper, walked outside) and now he could, he was allowed. He ran his fingers up the back of Sherlock's neck, up his skull, ruffling his curls. Sherlock let a few tears drip down his cheeks that John wiped away with his other thumb. 

John turns, and Mycroft is biting his cheek. His eyes are watery. A trick? John out of his mind? Both Holmes brothers, crying?

"Why are you crying? What's wrong?" John snaps, the words familiar, but he can't remember where he's heard them before. 

"A necessary evil, Dr. Watson," Mycroft sighs, "To keep you apart, so we can ensure you are safe and the plan moves forward. Moriarty, Sebastian, Mary."

John puts his head on Sherlock's shoulder, "We may have to be separated, but the three of us _have_ to work together. No secrets. We agree that is how everything went tits up the last time?"

At the colloquial expression Sherlock begins to giggle, shaking John. It's the delightful, joyous giggle that John adores from the beginning of their friendship; chasing bad cabbies, wearing sheets in Buckingham Palace, staring slack jawed at an honest-to-god elephant in the room. Mycroft is wiping tears from his eyes, giggling, looking from John to Sherlock. 

"And for the record," John squeezes Sherlock tightly to him, puts a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, forming a circle, "The two of you care. Far more than you'd like to admit. Far more than you want to show. I'm glad..." John coughs, finds it difficult to continue, "I'm glad you're both here with me. That we are all in this together."

Mycroft is too overcome to speak at more than a whisper, "I'll give you time for your goodbyes- your 'see you laters.' " He gives a sharp nod, squeezes John's hand on his shoulder before he releases it, slips out of the flat quietly. 

"God I hate this," Sherlock leans into John and sobs, sobs, pulling them down to the floor. They're rocking, John holding Sherlock in his lap, wrapping every bit of his gangly legs around him. He coaxes his Sherlock to breathe; but he can barely catch any air in between his cries. 

John tries to think of something comforting to say, an encouragement, but he can't. The only thing that occurs to him is the truth, what he believes down to his bones, "I'm sorry Sherlock," as he kisses his hair, rubs his shoulders, "I'm so sorry I wasn't brave enough to tell you I loved you; before Mary, during all those years we were together under the same roof."


	63. Chapter 63

John is a soldier when he raises up off the floor. There is a mission to work through. Commanding officer has given the next order. John kisses Sherlock's head and helps him up. 

They pack silently, efficiently; they've kept clothes and items stowed and ready to take the moment Baker Street was available. Now, it's John that's going back to their flat and Sherlock back to his "hospitalization." Everyone is moving pieces against the most dangerous woman in the world: Mary Morstan. She has turned enemies into working partners. John is tired of the cat and mouse and feels heat of tears as he finishes zipping his duffle bag. 

The meet at the front door when they're done. They whisper, kiss into each other's necks; do their best to wipe each other's tears. They know, in every moment, breath, and movement they belong to each other and each other alone. Silent, they leave together, in Mycroft's car, holding each other's hands until John is dropped at Baker Street. John kisses him quickly and leaves the car. To dawdle would arouse suspicion. 

Mycroft slides in beside Sherlock after John has disappeared from view. He pats his hand and as he moves it away Sherlock grabs his arm, wrapping himself as close to his big brother as he can. 

Mycroft won't notice the fingertip bruises on his biceps until later that evening.


	64. Chapter 64

Sherlock doesn't speak during the ride. He is shaking and pulling his coat and his scarf as tightly around himself as he can. Mycroft guides him upstairs to a guest room, wondering if he even knows where he is. Before he leaves, he remembers to set all the alarms on the windows. 

When Mycroft is halfway down the stairs, he hears Sherlock yell for him. When he runs back in, Sherlock is undressed, eyes wide, huddled in blankets against the headboard. 

"Mycroft," his voice creaks. Mycroft will do anything. He looks six years old, wrapped up in blankets, scared of the thunder. 

"Please, let Seb and Moriarty talk as much as they want. They're both bastards, but..." He puts his head down on his knees, breathing in and out raggedly. 

"Brother dear," he crosses the room to ruffle his brother's curls, "We'll have a secured phone line between you and your John by tomorrow night."

"Still," he sniffs, "Let them talk."

"Yes, Sherlock." Mycroft leaves quietly, keeping the door slightly ajar. He goes downstairs to pour himself a scotch while he stares out the window. There is so much waiting in stakeouts, and missions. Terribly boring and tedious; always why Mycroft normally left the field work to the smartest goldfish. 

This objective, this mission, was for his brother. He had a target on his back and Mycroft had to use every influence and tactic to move the focus from Sherlock to himself. 

Neither brother slept much.


	65. Chapter 65

The pain of being apart aches; John finds it a bit more tolerable than Sherlock because he has grieved his death after a jump from St. Bart's. John comforts himself with remembering Sherlock is alive and simply a call or text away. 

Sherlock, who has only had one friend, only one love, is holding on to everything by the scrape of his nails. He can grab bits of sleep if he spoons three pillows. After the first miserable week, Mycroft picks up John's spare pillow and a couple of his threadbare jumpers. Sherlock builds a nest (Mycroft is honestly surprised that his brother doesn't dress up a couple of pillows like John) and he's finally able to sleep for four hours straight. 

Mycroft meets with Moriarty outside London after he leaves Anthea to watch his jumper-cuddling brother. Moriarty's reception is civil, even grateful for the extra communication with Seb. Mycroft ticks a reminder in his mind to tell Sherlock what a good idea that was. The praise may keep him from a darker mood yet. 

"Magnussen wants to hurt John," Moriarty snaps in the middle of a dull hostage discussion (when can you let Seb go? Honestly.) "You're going to need to watch everything with that man. He will breathe fire and set all the plans a flame." He flutters his hand up in a flick of his wrist and undulating fingers, whistling a mimicry of a bomb careening to earth. He ruins his own dramatic gesture by popping his gum at the whistle's end. 

"Any idea how? When?"

"Mary was to take me out- which she believes she has. Magnussen doesn't want to be on equal ground with Mary. He controls. Magnussen knows John is Mary's pressure point, and to control her, he's got to control John." 

"We continue and let Sherlock catch him with his secrets: at Appledore. Life in prison for blackmail." Mycroft spins his umbrella in a wide circle in front of him, rolling the handle in a circle around his palm, "Let Sherlock continue on his path of confrontation with Magnussen?"

Moriarty grins, "Let him be the dragon slayer. Pull down Magnussen, save John, take out Mary."

Mycroft stops swinging his umbrella and points it at Moriarty, "We return Sebastian Moran to you, unharmed."

"And the detective and his doctor get their happily ever after."


	66. Chapter 66

John wakes with one of his newer nightmares, one he hasn't had for three nights. He was panicked, Sherlock bleeding from his chest, and he was having to slowly lower him by rope to the bottom of a great cavern. The blood on the rope kept causing his grip to slide. He woke with the feeling of frayed rope burns still on his palms.

Fall is moving forward into colder seasons. Christmas, rather than a mark of joy on the calendar, is now an approaching date with a doomsday clock. Mycroft and John have agreed John will be in the dark with the Christmas Day logistics (sometimes he hates that he's a terrible liar) but he is consoled that it's a deception with his consent. All he knows is that everyone will be invited to get together. 

He recalls the first case, after the death of the cabbie, when Sherlock and Mycroft met in the car park and discussed Mummy. Mycroft had mentioned "You should've seen the Christmas dinners." 

He never imagined he'd get to see such a holiday event, especially attending as Sherlock's (secret?) boyfriend, conducting a double bluff against his assassin wife. 

_I said dangerous_

_And here you are_

A Christmas dinner. Surprisingly, Mary agrees to attend, even though their communication has been short and nondescript. John isn't sure what Mary is up to; he knows that Mycroft, Sherlock, and in some ways, Moriarty, are pulling on her spiderweb. 

The doomsday clock counts down.


	67. Chapter 67

Sherlock is not as comfortable with guns as he believes he should be. He's killed, while dismantling Moriarty's network, while running cases with John he's kept John's gun with him at times, but he doesn't trust himself. He's too impulsive. A former junkie, he's afraid with his addictive personality he may get too used to using it rather than his wits. He may become too dependent on getting out of a situation with a bullet rather than skill. 

His objective today, in a variation of his Shezza outfit, is to scour the streets of London for any clues on Mary Morstan or her former aliases. He is missing John with a deep ache today, and he's angry at himself for his addiction, so he keeps to himself as much a as he can. He's glad he's decided against carrying a gun; he'd be shooting at anyone or anything. 

Better to be unarmed and keep his body sharp, his mind tuned. He remembers the days and nights of hand to hand combat, both before The Fall and after, so he practices some sidestepping kicks and spins in the underground alleys. 

He turns to the left as he's rounding a corner and recalls suddenly a day when he and John were running through the streets at breakneck speed. When they'd stopped, breathless, against a wall, Sherlock remembers having to dig his heels into the concrete to keep from pushing himself over to kiss John. God, he'd loved him. Even then, all this time. He aches with missing him, but it's a better ache than words unspoken. 

Sherlock rounds another corner to the right, and he skids to a halt. A woman, in all black, is surrounded by a small group of homeless men and women. She is talking animatedly, gesturing with her gun. A woman, Samantha (from a bolt hole near the Thames) says no and starts to back away. 

Before anyone can move or speak, the woman in black puts her gun to Samantha's head, blowing her brains out the back. 

Everyone screams, jumps. The woman in black is gesturing, yelling at the rest of the group. They are panicking, crying. 

Sherlock steps forward into her line of sight, "Leave them alone, Mary. What do you want with me?"

She turns, that sick, dangerous smile on her face. As her attention is focused on Sherlock, the rest of the homeless network scatters. Samantha lays at their feet, her blood pooling around their shoes, but neither Mary not Sherlock move. She lowers her gun. 

"Why couldn't you just die on schedule?" Mary rolls her eyes, lowering her gun. 

"Why didn't you kill Magnussen when you had the chance?"

"Because you will be the one to kill him for me, Sherlock," She says, clicking the 'ck' in his name. Smiling as she comes right up to him, looking up into his eyes, "You will kill Magnussen. If you don't, I promise that" She points her gun at Samantha's dead body, "I will kill," She shoots Samantha in the chest, a little to the right of her heart, "John." 

She never breaks eye contact with Sherlock. Her aim is true; even at a side glance, even with Samantha's body at an awkward angle at their feet.


	68. Chapter 68

Sherlock's knees feel weak so he bends them slightly and reminds himself to breathe. He will not, cannot, give her the satisfaction of seeing him faint. She has outmaneuvered him again; his only consolation, only hope, is that she still truly believes Moriarty is dead. He is their last Ace. 

He decides, however, that he must play her. Have it show that he's feeling somewhat defeated, but still resolute to work through a solution. He remembers John telling him once that the stage "lost a great actor when Sherlock Holmes moved into detective work," so he trusts those instincts. 

"Why do you think I would agree to all that?"

She moves close to Sherlock, her front touching him, dancing the barrel of her gun against his cheek. He bites his jaw together. He wants to taunt her, that she will lose eventually, but they have to play through the game. Keep the pieces moving. She wouldn't kill him now, or she already would have. 

"I need Magnussen dead by the 1st of the year. I need John to be close by to prove that you won't just disappear with him before you fulfill our agreement. Magnussen dead, you are free, John is safe."

"How do I have your word, Mary, when all I've had thus far have been lies?"

"Oh shush," She coos, putting the gun against his lips. He's shaking, "I'm not done yet." She tilts her head and moves close to whisper in his ear, "You've got to kill him in front of an audience, so there is no question it was you. So you're sent away, or executed yourself. So I'm free of guilt, and John and I are together. Then, I am the leader, and you will truly be destroyed in every. Sense. Of. The. Word." 

She cocks the gun, allowing the sensory memory to take Sherlock over. He can't help his knees giving out now; she pulls away, his only support gone. Sherlock crumbles forward, his forearms barely breaking his collapse into the pavement. He hears her clipped steps grow fainter and fainter.

He doesn't dare get up until he knows, senses, she is long gone. It may be minutes, hours, days; but he only gets up when the ringing of the gun cocking isn't so loud in his ears.


	69. Chapter 69

Mycroft sends John a one word text:

_quicklime_


	70. Chapter 70

John receives Mycroft's text. 

_quicklime_

He waits 2 hours. Goes outside, walks through the alleyways and through small parks. He knows she will find him. 

He goes into a cafe, making sure he's in a corner, facing out. It reminds him of the time, months ago, when he'd first confronted Mary, smashing chairs. 

From the text, he knew something volatile happened between Sherlock and Mary, but Sherlock was safe. 

If John had received the text _ambix _, upon entering the cafe, Mary would have been shot in between the eyes, and would have crumpled dead to the floor, rather than being allowed to slip into the booth across from him.__


	71. Chapter 71

She sits down. Before she's even settled in her seat, John begins hounding her with questions. 

"Sherlock _called _me. Not a text. Sherlock sounds....weird...and he won't tell me what's going on. He's telling me to do all these things, insisting on them. Did something happen with you two?"__

What is he trying to get her to believe with these sentences? What is the narrative he wants her to believe? Words carefully chosen. 

_**Ignorant. He's ignorant. He knows something happened, only from what Sherlock said, and she knows John thinks he's at hospital. They aren't at 221B together. That he didn't say spoke 'in person.'** _

Everything will begin moving quickly. 

"I don't know..." Sweet Mary, fake Mary. 

"He was blabbering on about how we need to stay together," he wipes his face, his eyes, letting his imagination go. Times away from Sherlock. When Sherlock was bleeding. When he didn't believe Sherlock could feel things that way, "For the good of us. The good of the baby." John finds tears are so easy, he's nearly sobbing, he breathes, willing himself to focus. 

What does he want her to think?

_**Heartbroken. Sherlock no longer his lover. Sherlock making John choose Mary. Like at Lanister Gardens. John feeling he has to, from obligation. Military. Traditional values. Believes she's turned away from her old lifestyle. Ready to forgive as the love of his life has left him, in no uncertain terms.** _

"He wants us," He swallows a sob, "You and I to go to his parents' house for Christmas. To start over. He's so insistent on it, Jesus," Sherlock crying, Sherlock broken in the hospital, more tears, "He said. He said it would be good for us to all be there. Put everything behind us."

He can't look up at her. He continues to wipe his face. 

"Alright," She says slowly, "Alright." 

John wills himself to breathe, to stop the hiccuping sobs that broke through. He's never cried like that in front of anyone. He expects the entire cafe to be gawking at him, but he imagines a large display of emotion from him may seem quite normal to anyone else. 

"I'm not ready," he says slowly, looking up at her, her face unreadable, "To move back in together," he thinks of Sherlock never living with him again, never kissing him again, and more tears fall. He wipes them quickly, "But it's important to-" (him, Sherlock) "the baby, to....so I can work up to it."

What does he want her to read on him now?

_**Sherlock has listened to everything Mary said and is putting all the pieces in place. Mary will get everything she wants. John is broken and resigned. Sherlock has already given up the only person he ever really loved. He's had the heart burned out of him.** _

"Ok. We can go slow." She says. Never reaches for him. Never smiles. Calm. 

"I need to lie down. I'll call you." He hurries out of the cafe, nearly blinded by his tears. He's not sure why he's still crying, the performance is over; Mary cannot see him from this distance.


	72. Chapter 72

Through wet eyelashes, when he's half a block from 221B, John texts Mycroft one word: 

_phosphene_


	73. Chapter 73

Sherlock is dazed as he picks himself up off the pavement. He looks up, around, willing himself not to cry. He's already collapsed; he doesn't want Mary to have the satisfaction of tears as well. 

In looking up and around him, into the gray fog, he sees a CCTV camera pointed right at him. It then spins left, right, then up. Mycroft has seen. All of it, in his plain sight. 

As rain gently drizzles, Sherlock weaves, walks, runs his way back to 221B. He skids on trash and slides sideways into a wall, scraping his knuckles and knee into uneven bricks.

When he is home, he runs up the stairs, peeling off his filthy clothes, shaking hands hardly letting him run the taps for a bath. He does his best to scrub away the feeling of Mary's gun touching his skin, her breath in his ear, her unflinching look at she shot a corpse at their feet. 

He hears Mycroft come up the stairs (more accurately, his steps, and the staccato of his umbrella) and hears him calling for him. When Sherlock doesn't answer, Mycroft timidly pushes open the bathroom door. 

Any other day, any other time, Mycroft would have received Sherlock's full sarcasm, wrath, and scalding tongue. All Mycroft saw was his baby brother put his face into his hands and weep racking sobs, displacing the water outside the tub. 

Mycroft, the man who hated to wade in, kneels at the edge of the tub, wetting his trousers from ankle to knee, soaking his coat from wrist to elbow. He pulls his shaking, little brother to him, pets his head, wipes away his tears. He looks over his small cuts and bruises, making sure they are only superficial. 

After the water is cold, and Mycroft's back aches, he eases Sherlock out of the bath, holds up a towel to dry him, pulls out bedclothes and puts them over his head and up over his legs. They do not speak anything other than hushed whispers of assurance. 

After he pulls the blankets up over him, Mycroft sits on Sherlock's bed, unknowingly on John's side, and smooths his brothers hair until he feels his breathing and muscles relax. 

After his baby brother has been asleep for an hour, Mycroft goes into the living room. He looks out the windows, then pulls out his mobile. 

As he checks his messages, his face becomes more and more lined, gritty, pupils pinpointed in the dark. 

Mycroft's face, which is normally calm, complacent, haughty, is transformed. If anyone saw him watching out the window from the street below (entering Speedy's, calling a cab, looking up at the famous Sherlock Holmes window) they would have seen incandescent wrath. An observer below would not have recognized him. 

The observer would have described a man willing to destroy, or be destroyed; a hurricane. They would not have been able to tell you the man standing there, overlooking the city from his brother's flat, gripping his mobile until his knuckles were white and red, was Mr. Mycroft Holmes.


	74. Chapter 74

John calls Mycroft. 

He needs to see Sherlock, but the route must be clear. Mary believes he's currently breaking, or already broken up, with Sherlock. That her threat worked. He can't be seen heading to Sherlock now. But he's desperate to see him. Wipe away whatever Mary did. 

There is a pause before Mycroft answers. Mycroft sounds murderous. Frightening. 

"John, now may not be the best time..."

John can hear Sherlock speaking in the background. 

"John, she's...let me bring you some items to the other flat. Your flat."

"Mycroft..." John wants to beg. Scream. Yell. He's standing in middle of the sidewalk, passersby bumping him. He is suppressing the urge to slam back against anyone approaching him. 

"John. You know I wouldn't do this if it weren't for the _best_ reason. The _best_."

"Mycroft, tell him..."

"No, John. I'll meet you. I'll bring your things. Remember."

John pauses. Jesus. 

"Ok. Ok."

John's heart is beating out of his chest. The language, word choice. There has been some major cock up, some factor they did not anticipate. 

"Yes." John disconnects, considers hailing a cab, but decides to burn off nervous energy by running instead.


	75. Chapter 75

John is breathless when he enters his flat. It's so empty. 

He remembers Sherlock here, doing his best to care for him in his illness, when their plans were falling apart in a disastrous fashion. He sinks to the floor, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He sits, staring at the floor in front of him, watching the shadows lengthen and the sunlight disappear. 

John only wipes his eyes when he hears a terse knock at the door.

Mycroft doesn't say much when he hands a cardboard box and places it in John's arms. 

John thinks that Mycroft also looks as if he's been crying, but John would have to see it to believe it. 

They do not speak. They stare at one another. Mycroft is vibrating, jaw clenched. He appears just as the day John brought Sherlock home from the crack house. 

John stutters as he grabs the box to his chest, hugging it, "He's, he's not using, using already, is he?"

Mycroft simply shakes his head no. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. 

He points to the box, turning his body in slightly to shroud his arm. 

He walks away, snapping his heels against the pavement. John calls after him, "Mycroft-"

Mycroft turns. Looks. John isn't sure how to interpret what he's seeing. Anger and disappointment, or possibly a distrust of speaking in the open. 

Mycroft jogs back to his car before John can ask another question.


	76. Chapter 76

At first, John takes the box to the bedroom, but he can't. His knees weaken when he gets close to the doorway. He doesn't want to be near a bed when he's alone. Without his Sherlock. His throat constricts; he wonders when he last called him _my sweet prince_ , or when he last told him he loved him. 

He takes to box back to the kitchen, and opens it at the counter. 

In it, there is a bulletproof vest and a note attached to it in Sherlock's handwriting. " _I have a matching one_ " Next to the vest is tucked a Manila envelope- "Read First." 

The first pages are detailed schematics of how the Christmas party at the Holmes parents is going to go, down to their scripts and clothing, and the takedown of Magnussen. The takedown of Magnussen is not detailed, but simply states "John will follow Sherlock's lead when they visit him."

The next pages are a detailed explanation of how they will remove Mary from the equation, after Magnussen is dealt with. 

Her detailed report lists that she is faking her pregnancy. They are proceeding with Mycroft's "Pseudo" plan. 

John feels sad, but relieved. Easier, much easier. Just her life. He feels a twinge that he has no guilt, but he considers Sherlock. Who he almost lost. 

Setting the envelope aside, he sees a bright red and green Christmas card. On it, in Sherlock's sprawled writing, "Merry Christmas, my love. Read this last."

"What a mad bastard," John whispers to himself, tearing into the Christmas card, "Writing about the destruction of our archenemies in one letter, then sending me a Christmas card immediately after."

He smiles, turning the card over to the flap, where Sherlock would have presumably licked the envelope seal. He places a kiss on the flap before continuing to open it. 

"I love you," He says into the empty room, the envelope still against his lips.


	77. Chapter 77

Sherlock sits in a chair, having makeup and oil added to his face by Anthea. For pallor. To convey illness. To play his role. 

Mycroft is pacing, rubbing his hands against the black and silver wallpaper, over the yellow smiley face and the bullet holes. Sherlock's breath hitches; he remembers the basement of his mind palace where he was at war with Moriarty, with himself, forcing his heart to restart. 

"You want me here, little brother? To help sell the story?" Mycroft asks, not looking at Sherlock, continues to study the wall. 

_Sentiment._ He cannot stand to look at Sherlock pale, ill, reminder of when he almost slipped away. 

"Yes, I would," Sherlock says, moving his fingers and lips so Anthea can add some blue pallor to his lip line and finger tips. To show kidney and liver issues. 

After the lighting is dimmed, and Mycroft sits himself on the couch, Anthea goes downstairs to let Mary in. 

"The final act." Sherlock huffs out, changing his posture to indicate pain, grief. 

Easiest act of all.


	78. Chapter 78

The door swings open, Mary creeping around. Prepared to fight or flee. With the turn of her hips, Sherlock sees she's off balance. Faking a pregnancy. Gun tucked off her hip. 

Sherlock, in an act of petulance, is in John's chair. He doesn't want her in it. No one but John, and if not John, him. 

As she steps into the room, she looks at Sherlock through half closed eyes, shock registering on her face; unable to mask it. She cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow at Mycroft. 

"Here to beg for your brother's life, then?" 

She believes Sherlock looks off, but just considers it to be nerves. (Begging for John? For them to be together?)

"Sit, Mrs. Watson," he says, making sure his speaking and breathing patterns are slightly labored, indicating a pressure on his ribs or liver. She doesn't move her eyes from his as she sinks into Sherlock's chair (where Moriarty sat and drank tea). 

Sherlock doesn't offer tea.


	79. Chapter 79

"There is no life to beg for, Mrs. Watson," Mycroft says, his umbrella laid across his lap, "Thanks to your handiwork, all the way around, Sherlock is dying. Slowly. Of liver disease."

Sherlock was ready to explain it, just small pieces (only lies have details); A shot. Grazing the liver. Then running around, not taking care of himself, staph infection on top of blood poisoning, HEP B from prolonged unsafe IV drug use. Perfect cocktail for a slow, fatal liver degeneration. 

Mary didn't ask for an explanation. 

Sherlock inhaled sharply, "I won't pursue treatment, not," His voice broke, this acting was easy, imagining John choosing anyone else over him, "not without John. Now that...now that it's clear to keep him alive he must stay with you."

He keeps his eyes on Mary. Mary's look is hard, but she doesn't say anything. 

"On Christmas Day, I will kill Magnussen, in front of witnesses, then be sent away" (until Moriarty can pull me back) "John doesn't know" (the details) "then everything you asked for will be completed" (my revenge for marrying him) "and you can continue with your life" (for maybe 2 days) "with John." 

Mary rises, nods to Sherlock and Mycroft, "As long as you go away to die and stay dead, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I really don't give a damn how you do it."

After Mary has left the flat, Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs, bounding up the stairs quicker than Sherlock has ever heard. 

"I hate that woman," she yells, shaking, "Can't you, can't you, drop her out of the window onto some _bins_ a few times?"

"Patience, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft laughs, "All in good time."


	80. Chapter 80

John waits in bed, laying down on his back, willing sleep to come. He's emotionally exhausted; time creeps by on the countdown to Christmas. He holds up his phone in the darkness, the screen lighting his face. The words, a poem really, are memorized. 

_My dearest conductor of light, I miss you. It seems strange to buy you a bullet proof vest and attach a love note of sorts but what else to give? You are my doctor that went to war. You shot the cabbie when we first met. You told me I was brilliant. You run, chasing all over London with me. The game is never over with you, my sweet prince. Until I can hold you again and kiss you desperately, your Sherlock_

John's belly warms, and a little guilt pools. It is worth wounds, separation, misunderstanding to get a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great man. His love for him, in their separation, their trials, was so tangible even in absence. 

He sleeps with the cell phone on his chest, over his heart, to the sound of rain gently falling on the windowpane.


	81. Chapter 81

John dreams, finally, of sand and heat and gunshots. But he is pulled out of it by closer noises. 

_pounding_   
_scraping_   
_footsteps_

John snaps awake, grabbing his gun from the bedside table and rolling on the floor like he's 20 years old again, fresh in the service. (Intruder? Moriarty? Mycroft?) He waits, tucked behind the corner of the bed, not wanting to fire until absolutely necessary. 

The door creeps open, and the bit of light illuminates the figure. John exhales.

Sherlock. Soaking wet, hair and clothing sticking to him, dressed in layered jumpers and jeans so he would blend in with anyone. 

John leaps off the floor, nearly tackling him to the floor, pulls him into the bathroom and growls into his ear, "You need to warm up in a bath."


	82. Chapter 82

Sherlock is shaking; he hadn't been thinking that John would've been on a hair trigger and ready with his gun. Sherlock had been hoping to strip down and crawl naked into his bed (their bed) and wrap himself around his doctor to warm up. A bath together sounds lovely, however. 

He allows John to guide him, quickly, into to the bathroom and helps him to strip naked in between running the taps as hot as they can stand. 

Sherlock's clothes are drenched, and cold, and stick to his body. His teeth chatter, and he giggles, his fingers unable to work his trousers and pants down over his hips. 

"Oh for god's sakes," John huffs, smiling, pulling Sherlock tightly to him, in one motion pulling him close and stripping him. In similar efficiency John is tugging off his pyjamas. John is naked and Sherlock is dazed; his lips are kissing his face, arms wrapped around him, and one calf has looped up over his. 

"John, I'm....so cold," 

"Oh, my prince, I'm sorry." John guides him, places him in the front of the tub where the water is warmer, the doctor climbs in behind him and adjusts so Sherlock is leaning back onto John. 

John begins kissing Sherlock's neck, rubbing his shoulders, moving his hands down Sherlock's hips and thighs. 

"John, please, just hold me," His voice is even richer and deeper, nearly asleep, "tomorrow."

John checks himself, with difficulty, and gently rubs and rinses Sherlock. He takes moments to hold him, whispers into his ear as the water warms their skin pink. John loses track of how many times he tells Sherlock he loves him, how much he's missed him, and how amazed he is at how their bodies perfectly fit together.

Every inch of skin is caressed with John's fingers and soap. When he's clean, and breathing deeply, John helps him out, finally warm, but walking asleep. He stumbles and holds his hips and pushes his shoulder as a guide to the bedroom; Sherlock's eyes are half closed as John sits him on the bed to dry and dress him. 

John lets go of Sherlock for one moment to throw the towel in the hamper. Sherlock collapses in sleep with one arm stuck in a side angle in the shirt sleeve, so John moves behind him, rolls him over and under the covers as he tugs the shirt straight. 

John's reminded of Harry; when she, as a young child, would grow so tired she would collapse anywhere, in the oddest places and positions. One time, their parents found her with her head on her drawing pad, fingers still gripping a crayon; asleep mid stroke. 

His heart bursting with affection, john crawls in behind Sherlock, pulls the blankets tightly around them. He listens to Sherlock's breathing and runs his fingers through his damp curls. His hands lightly touch his arms, his thighs; just rubbing gently in affection. 

They fall sleep like spoons in a drawer with John's arm under Sherlock's shoulder. Both of John's arms are reached around his beloved's torso at an angle so that their fingers are laced around each other's.

The only sound is the exhale of John's breath lightly tickling Sherlock's nape curls.


	83. Chapter 83

John wakes to the sound of Sherlock wrestling with the sheets, the blanket, his arms tangled. John's arm lurches forward as Sherlock pulls him in the momentum; he's muttering to himself. 

John grabs Sherlock by the shoulder that is tucked into the mattress and grabs him round. In the dim light they are facing each other. Sherlock's eyes are still shut, John kisses him, running his tongue against his lips. Sherlock giggles (honest to God giggles), while John kisses him awake. They shift so they are in the middle of Sherlock's bed (their bed.) 

"What, what did you wake me up for?" 

John laughs, the laugh that makes Sherlock thrilled to hear. Not a care in the world. Breathless, but coming deep from his belly, "You were talking, or wrestling around, or something. I decided to kiss you. In case it was a nightmare." 

Sherlock pulls John to him, their bodies flush against one another. John stops laughing. The kisses become more passionate, more heated, grasping with tongues. John moves his fingers against Sherlock's ribcage, his stomach, his hipbones, and pulls them flush; he grabs at both their erections in between them. They grind and rub against one another, there is not enough time for anything else, and they climax with moans into each other's mouths.


	84. Chapter 84

Moriarty is watching Mary's flat from a dirty alleyway. It's been forever, it's been a few hours, he's been digging for clues just with his eyes. He crouches, his thighs tight and his knees ache. He thinks of Seb, and the only way out of this is through. To him. That's the only way. This, obligation. To his enemies. He shivers, pulling the sweatshirt closer to his body. 

She's meticulous, fastidious, maddening. She has assassins working for her, she's brutal, willing to die. From this vantage point, he knows she hasn't left her flat in some time. The plan she's placed is still for Sherlock to kill Magnussen. 

The spider, the lying wife, the businessman. There is only one that will be left in all of this. Only one of them can live to see the new year. 

Moriarty cracks his neck from side to side, and sends Mycroft a text, "The same." 

He jogs away before Mary, or any of her many minions, catch on that he's not just any vagrant in the alley.


	85. Chapter 85

John pulls away from Sherlock, smiling, and goes into the bathroom for a flannel. Sherlock is half asleep, but he gently presses apart his thighs, running the flannel over his trembling skin with soft fingers. He sees goosebumps appear on Sherlock's legs in the dim light. 

"Are you cold, my prince?" John smiles, humming into his ear. He leaves him for a moment; tossing the used cloth in the bathroom, grabbing clean pants and bottoms for himself from his room. He returns, digging through Sherlock's drawers for something warmer for him. It is turning to mid morning, but winter is beginning to settle. The flat is chilly. 

"Quit messing up my sock index and get back into bed. We'd both be warmer if you'd stay."

Ignoring him, John dresses Sherlock as a child; pulling pants up over his hips and tickling him on his ribs as he does so. A shirt, socks (his feet are cold), and warm pajama bottoms. The pajamas are short on Sherlock, and bunching at his waist.

"John," Sherlock strokes his cheek, "Yes. They're yours. Before you left... I... Took a couple things. I thought you might not miss."

The doctor does not understand why he never saw (observed) this beautiful man. So scared of being alone. Sherlock tries to duck his head in embarrassment? Guilt? But John runs his hands up the sides of his neck, his face, kissing him. Gently. Remembering the warmth of last night's bath and their earlier need to touch one another. 

John pulls his detective, his love, to him and wraps himself around him. Grabs the blankets to pull up over them. Sherlock's eyes are wide and his brow furrowed. John strokes his face a few minutes until he relaxes into his touch; smiling slightly when John begins to speak. 

"Have I told you," John kisses his nose, his cheeks, his neck, "that the sociopath diagnosis is absolute rubbish. It's a lie. I will tell you that for the rest of our lives until you believe me. You love more deeply," He puts his hand under Sherlock's shirt, rubbing the fading chest wound, "than anyone I've ever known. You love with the fiercest passion. You care to your core, with a defensiveness and protectiveness I've only seen in the bravest of my fellow soldiers. To think I missed that, at first. The most caring heart as well as the sharpest mind. It is worth all my wounds that I am here with you," He kisses a tear rolling down his chin, "and soon I will be unbound and we can become husbands. You are the love of my life, and why you chose me is my greatest joy but a mystery to me."


	86. Chapter 86

Mycroft fiddles with his tie. He's finished negotiations with a crime ring in North America. They will relax their stronghold and give up information. A feud that started because a husband and wife refused to testify against the other. They would rather both be deported, or imprisoned, than one without the other. 

The crisis in North America averted, Mycroft reviews his text messages that feed him information in The Mary Problem. Moriarty is still desperately eager to please, doing everything to stay in Mycroft's favor. Extra stakeouts. Photos and videos. Anything to prove loyalty. 

Mycroft laughs. Completely inappropriate, but he remembers the bar fight he staged on John's stag night in the hopes of them finally having _the talk_. It didn't work. The realization, the declaration, would have to wait for potentially even more tragic circumstances for their feelings to come to light. 

Mycroft loves their parents, but there was a rift so deep it took years to fix. Sherlock was always sensitive and loved animals, but also loved morbid experiments and the macabre. He never had friends, and when Redbeard died, they'd gotten Sherlock some counseling. His father, in a slip of judgement, had an affair with the therapist. Pedestrian. Plebeian. Idiotic. 

Sherlock deduced the affair, and couldn't keep quiet. The therapist, to try and discredit Sherlock, had fought back with a Sociopath diagnosis. Even after large fights, screaming matches, and the family coming back together, the diagnosis stuck. Even after other psychological tests were done that showed the therapist was wrong, Sherlock used it has his shield and armor to keep others away. 

Mycroft knew Sherlock was right; he was lonely. But he didn't mind as much. He worried about his brother (constantly), but the ache and guilt were less. He recalls his words to Anthea (when he first saw the way Sherlock looked at Doctor Watson) all those years ago, the phrase that keeps coming to him again and again. 

"That soldier fellow. He'll either be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever."


	87. Chapter 87

Sherlock holds his breath. 

John has told him, again, that he loves him. He cannot think beyond trying to keep tears from rolling down his face. 

"Not a sociopath...my sweet prince," John is cooing; Sherlock has never heard anything like it. He's shushing him, kissing him, wiping away his tears. He wants to tell John he loves him but he can't compare with John's wonderful words. Even though they've slept all night, his body is bone tired. He wants (itches, craves) to be held, rocked, comforted. He's never felt this way (never let himself). He's let John bathe him, dress him; he knows he's an adult, but he's been on his own for so long. Now John is here. John will always be here. 

"John," is all Sherlock can say. He buries his head into his dear love's neck and allows John to rub his back until they fall back asleep.


	88. Chapter 88

Sherlock tucks his nose into the crook of John's neck. He wills himself to calm his breathing, his heart rate, his shaking hands. 

He murmurs into John's neck, (he has to say it or his heart will keep drumming.)

"I won't live without you, John, I won't. You have to live."

John pulls back, pushing Sherlock's hair from his eyes, "Sherlock, my love. Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock grips John's biceps and searches his face in a frantic, sweeping motion. "You're so much stronger than I am, John. I can't, I can't think. You're all I have. I know this is the most dangerous situation we're putting ourselves in. I'm putting you in."

John rubs the back of Sherlock's neck with the pads of his fingers. He reminds Sherlock to breathe; he's nearing a panic attack. His eyes are wide and unfocused, similar to new recruits at their first experience of live gunfire. 

"But you said dangerous, Sherlock, and here I am."


	89. November 27th

The shooting range is completely empty. 

Anthea has set it up so there are varied targets at the end of the breezeway, and provided Mycroft with a variety of guns to try at various distances. 

He is rusty (never been one for wading in), but he fires all the weapons, all the rounds. He catalogues, in his methodology, the easiest to handle, the most precise, least bulky to conceal. 

He goes back through his choices to be sure he's satisfied. He times himself; how fast can he pull the gun out and aim. How well does he shoot with elevated blood pressure, shaking hands, shallow breathing. 

Mycroft goes back through the weaponry again. He has to be sure he'll hit his target 98% of the time with 97% accuracy. 

He imagines the paper targets as various enemies. Another round. 

His shoulders are burning, his fingers ache, his eyes are dry. 

He leaves at 2am. 98% and 97%. 

He's not a praying man. 

He asks God that his shooting is accurate enough.


	90. November 28th

There is a light frost on the windowpanes, the trees, the small tufts of grass in the urban landscape. The hammering and drilling echoes crisply in the frozen air. Breath condenses into the atmosphere. 

Jim Moriarty is supervising a team of 23 laborers who are proceeding under the assumption they are building a rather elaborate set piece for a traveling theatre company. 

The piece has to be far more theatrical, far more practical. It will be a structure that must fool one of the craftiest assassins of their time. The outside is as intricate as the inside. A partial wall enclosing what is meant to be seen as a Leinster Gardens facade. An entrance into a false floor that juts over the trains behind the facade. A built room created near and around the actual buildings. Soundproof. Slits in the corners that can't be seen from the inside. Furniture perfected to look real, but bullet proof. Fire proof. 

This portion of a building is meant to resemble an apartment entrance. Enough to block the assassin's view of the outside as she walks into what she believes is her and her husband's new apartment. Where there is room for three (mother, father, baby.) 

There will be room inside for five. 

Four are planned to exit alive.


	91. November 29th

Sherlock lays on the couch, wearing his own bullet proof vest and 4 (John thinks only three) nicotine patches. John is in the kitchen, wearing his bullet proof vest, humming. The vests are new material; slimmer than any he's ever seen. To help the illusion, they decide to wear them as much as possible so it shows off as natural movement. 

"Sherlock," John calls, "Breakfast! And you're eating!"

Sherlock smiles. His heart feels large. Pounding out of his chest. He's reminded of the years before Mary, before the fall, when it was just John and Sherlock. John making Sherlock eat. John and Sherlock bickering over the state of the kitchen; heads and fingers in the fridge. John listening to Sherlock's violin as he sways in front if the window. 

Everything they do now must be more quiet. No violin, no yelling near the window, no leaving the flat without protection and disguise. But the memories, and the hope of living together, in love, in the future, keeps Sherlock's thoughts from spinning into a sulk or self pity.


	92. November 30th

Mycroft sits in his office, sipping whiskey (a gift from the King of Spain.) They exchanged love letters tucked into gifts and shared clandestine meetings for a year. This aged whiskey was one last gift he hadn't been in a hurry to finish. 

(Even some secrets the elder Holmes brother can keep from the younger.)

Six months ago, he may have felt melancholy sipping on this gift, but now he uses the memories to fuel his resolve. The moves and counter moves play in his mind as he swallows; a comfortable burn as it goes down. 

He picks up his phone. It's a rare time indeed, but he dials the King of Spain's protected line.

It's a once in a lifetime occurrence; Mycroft Holmes calling in a favor.


	93. December 1st

Sherlock goes out the flat's back entrance; he's just kissed John goodbye and told him he'd be gone no more than an hour. 

He pulls his sweatshirt close to him and rubs his hands together. He's wearing his bullet proof vest under the two layers of sweatshirt material. 

He crosses down two blocks, then zigzagging across a park. He's taking the most irregular route to see Billy. He doesn't want to risk anyone finding him, or understanding how valuable Billy is to the homeless network operation. 

As snow begins to lightly fall, Sherlock crosses the line of trees that buffer the park. His phone buzzes, causing him to jump. 

"Yes?" He stopped answering his phone with his name months ago. 

"They're in. They'll be in 12/23 for....vespers rehearsal." 

Sherlock hangs up his brother's call and keeps walking. He huffs into his fingers in an attempt to warm them. Sherlock wishes he could retreat to his mind palace to consider the information Mycroft has given regarding additional assistance. 

There is no time for contemplating; there's only time for action. The detective breaks into a paced jog when he sees Billy on a bench at the edge of the green space. 

Billy is dressed warmly; a jumper (Sherlock smiles, a more in fashion jumper than John's), scarf, coat, gloves. He's shaved. He looks nice, benign, presentable. Mary will recognize him if she sees him up close, of course, but if he stays at a distance, she shouldn't think anything of him. 

"Billy," Sherlock huffs, putting reddened hands into his pockets. 

"Sherlock." He pops the 'k' in his name, an obvious and annoying imitation. Sherlock can't keep his eyes from rolling. A knee jerk reaction. 

"We have our assistance. A helicopter. Guns. Friends of Mycroft's."

"What's it I'm doing until then?"

"Keep her into trouble. Monitor. Make sure she's not where Moriarty is, or anywhere near that side of town. I'm trusting you with the network to keep an eye on things." Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, "Quit smiling. You're not getting everything when I die." 

Sherlock hands him a wad of cash, nods, and walks back another way home. He has to stop himself several times from buying cigarettes. John will smell and taste them.


	94. December 2nd

Mycroft has always found it strange about himself that his work life entails an absolute crazed amount of danger and international pins and needles, while his home life is simply him. Alone. He sits at home in front of his fireplace and reads, or stares into the flames while sipping a drink. He is usually content, restful, able to sleep. Ready to begin the next work day at a breakneck pace. 

Over the past few months, he's felt an increased need to speak to others, to be around other people. He wouldn't dare call it something as pedestrian as loneliness. 

After a few minutes of internal debate, he rings Robert, a rather nice man his age that works down the hall in special intelligence. Their work does not typically overlap. They've spoken a few times over the past few months but have increased their communication more recently. Robert had been especially kind to Mycroft about the press concerning Sherlock's drug habit. Robert had revealed he'd has a younger sister with a drug problem. 

He asks Robert to lunch, Robert accepts. Easy. 

Mycroft meets Robert at a cafe a few blocks from work (after his bodyguards and operatives had scoured the area). Robert smiles at him after they order, and Mycroft finds himself smiling back. (He thought for a fleeting moment of Felipe and their first meal in Spain, then the moment passes). 

They discuss work, their family. Mycroft would usually be bored talking to someone this long. He's not. Not bored at all. 

"I uh," Robert began, coughing slightly, "Didn't think you'd want to...have lunch. With me. This is nice."

Mycroft puts his fork down and rests his chin on his hands, "Why would I not like to spend time with you?" Mycroft couldn't recall ever sounding like this. _soft. worried._ What was wrong with him? He felt out of his skin. 

Robert is darker skinned. Curly, brown hair, with large, brown eyes. He'd been adopted as a baby, so he wasn't sure of his heritage. (Mycroft has to be careful; some of this Robert had told him, some of this Mycroft researched in his file. He has to remember which was which.)

"Well," Robert begins, cheeks flushing, "Last time I saw you, that detective fellow was really keen to talk to you, I thought maybe you and he, were, you know. Together."

Mycroft looks at Robert, at a loss. It takes him a moment. 

"Greg? Lestrade?!"

Robert's tilts his head, "Well, yea. One of the staff told me she thought. You two were....an item. And, I shouldn't, get my hopes...up."

Mycroft considers Robert's words carefully, "So, you were hoping, then?"

Robert trips over his words, "Well, I mean...I told her. Dammit." He looks down a minute, then rests his forearms on the table to lean forward and look at Mycroft, "Yes, I wanted to, ask you out. She told me, not to, because you were seeing Graham-"

"Greg"

"Greg. And that, you. That you are. Were...."

Mycroft leans forward over the table, pushing his food to the side, "I'm what?"

"Were....are....difficult for people to get to know." 

Mycroft breathes in. Takes a risk. He reaches out and takes Robert's hand, gently. 

"Do I seem difficult?"

Robert smiles. Brightly. He turns his fingers to lace them through Mycroft's, "No, not at all."

"Maybe it was the people, then? The company I'm with can make a big difference." Mycroft smiles back. (Ohmygod. What _is wrong_ with him?)

"I'm glad."

After lunch, Robert walks Mycroft back to his office; he borrows Mycroft's phone to put his contact information in it. 

Mycroft doesn't let on that he's got all his information, classified and public, open this very moment on his computer.


	95. December 3rd

John knows he has to feign interest in Mary, the baby (non baby), but his skills can only carry him so far. He cannot put on different faces or pull tears on command like Sherlock. For something to sound true, or to come out of him with conviction, he has to believe in what he's saying. 

He decides the "forgiveness" speech will have to be just that. A speech. Rehearsed. And told to her as such. Mary doesn't know that John is aware of the additional threats she made to Sherlock, and these threats involve killing Magnussen. 

He paces the flat, making notes in his notebook, rethinking and rewriting what he will need to say, or what he may need to say in response. 

He's getting a headache trying to keep everything straight. He laughs, imagining this is why Sherlock has a mind palace; simply a mechanism to store all the data regarding these deceptions. He takes a moment to look outside the window of their flat. 

On impulse, he picks up a pencil from Sherlock's desk. He peels away some of the wallpaper near the spray painted smiley face, just enough so he can write on the plaster below, but not too much that it's greatly noticeable. 

He marks "22 days until SH & JW can marry."

He wonders on what countdown day that Sherlock will notice his note.


	96. December 4th

Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

His large, airy home is set back off of a field, off a winding lane. With this layout, he can see cars or pedestrians entering his property from all directions. His business activities, his sales to media, have allowed for a rather quick upturn in investments. 

He is advantageous with those he exploits as well. A tax examiner. An architect. A memory retention coach. All of them have services to offer, at a discount or for free, if he has their pressure point. 

He sits in his chair, willing his mind to clear and allow him to flip through his files. He is fixated on the Holmes brothers. They are fascinating; they deeply love each other, yet the games they play are so.....delicious. 

Charles Augustus Magnussen goes through all his newest information on Mycroft first. Sherlock has been in hiding. Blocked. 

Mycroft. Path of least resistance. The brother out in the open. 

He flips through photos of Mycroft as a little boy (oh, what a fatty), Mycroft crying with his parents the first, second, and third times they forced Sherlock into rehab (Sherlock must be in love with John Watson, only relapse after his marriage), and now Mycroft out to lunch two days ago. 

Mycroft holding hands with a man over lunch two days ago. A government official, in a relationship with a man? May not be enough for a pressure point. Yet. 

He begins his dig into the past of Robert Westlin. (Oh, Mycroft. What pressure points?)

Charles Augustus Magnussen smacks his lips. (This, the destruction of the Holmes brothers, this will be his greatest masterpiece).


	97. December 5th

Billy holds his head up high as he walks. He's been put in charge. He's never been put in charge of anything in his life, and he is taking this as seriously as the days he was assigned to guard Sherlock Holmes on the 'Case of the Undercover Junkie.'

Though, to his credit, Billy was observant enough to know Sherlock was itching for any frail excuse to get high, or hurt himself. He helped ease Sherlock's pain by keeping up appearances on the case. 

But he heard Sherlock crying out for John in the middle of nightmares, saw the red rimmed eyes that were only from crying, and noticed the pattern of doses that wasn't taken for fun; the drugs were taken to make him forget. 

It still hurt like hell to watch. This was no junkie on a binge. This had been a man coming absolutely unhinged, his mind and heart rattling along off the tracks. 

His love of his life, who he excruciatingly helped plan the wedding of, was on a sex holiday with another woman. The doctor on sex holiday was also stupidly in love with Shezza-Sherlock- but was too terrified to admit it. Billy was close to revealing it all (while nursing a squishy wrist) but the lovesick doctor gave him a look of pure, hair-raising, vile contempt. 

At that moment, Billy knew he was right. And being a romantic himself (and wanting Sherlock's stuff if he died) he shut his mouth. 

Now, confident in his ability to read people, he is following Mary Morstan. She's a few paces over on the other side of the street; simply walking. With her, though, there is never anything 'just' happening at all. 

He stopped himself. Evaluating from the top of her head to the soles of her shoes. What was different?

She wasn't pregnant. No belly. No waddle. She was thin again, walking briskly. Possibly, thinner than when he'd first met her. 

Interesting choice. Was she not afraid of being seen?

Billy continues his leisurely pursuit. Her hair is a similar blonde color, possibly a bit darker, but most people who know her should be able to recognize her. She weaves into an alley. He follows, climbing up a fire escape so he can watch her from above. He is light and silent. 

She crosses behind another alley, across another street. He moves across, crawls down as quickly and quietly as he can, picking his new path as she jaywalks diagonally. 

What is she doing? Why the weaving, zigging, zagging. (Oh. Clever.) She's following and watching an older couple, in their late 70s or 80s. Every street they cross, she follows. If they pause to look in a shop, she stops. Billy comes around their flank to get a look, to see who they are. They move into a larger crowd, and Mary proceeds in another direction. 

Billy thinks it might be a coincidence, but he double crosses back. He keeps both of them in sight, Mary and the couple, then sees the couple through a corner window that cuts through one side to the other. He doesn't recognize them, as they look through the corner class at him. He doesn't recognize them until the woman turns her head to look into the window, and he has a clear view of her face. 

He recognizes her eyes. Clear blue, multicolored, iridescent. Eyes he's only seen in one other human being. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Billy huffs, pushing back on his heels to turn and chase after Mary. He sends a text to Sherlock.


	98. December 6th

Mycroft is anxious. He thinks- he knows- he's being absolutely ridiculous. 

He's watched over his nation after 9/11. Watched as his brother thwarted a large scale attack on parliament. Put a damper on protests and unrest. 

He's absolutely in knots over asking out Robert again. Four days? Is it too soon? He's seen him a few times, in the hallway between their offices, and they have passed each other with smiling, side glances. Mycroft recalls his few (and far in between) dalliances and secret relationships. Only four days, and thinking of Robert has him driven to distraction. 

Mycroft decides to be brave, so he goes to Robert's office and knocks on the door. He hears a vet tentative sniffle (crying, rustling of papers, drawer shutting) and an answer to walk in. Mycroft pushes the door gently. 

Robert's office is warmly decorated. His office walls are lined with drawings from nieces, nephews, and young siblings. His desk is covered in papers neatly stacked into wire mesh baskets. His coat and a sweater hang on hooks near the door. Pop music is lightly playing on an old, beat up oak bookshelf. 

Mycroft, expecting another shy smile, or an invitation to sit down, stops short of entering the room completely. Robert is looking at him through lidded eyes. A newspaper is on his desk. He picks it up, shaking it at Mycroft.

"We can't see each other again." 

Mycroft begins calculations in his head. Red eyes, shaking fingers, office door closed all day, music playing so he can't hear outside gossip. 

"Magnussen printed something about you. About us."

Robert stares at him. He's not amazed, or angry, "You expected this?"

"No, no. I can just tell. By how you're acting. And the newspaper. And keeping away from everyone-"

"Stop. Just stop." Robert, even with his quiet voice, is able to command the room. He pushes back from his desk. Looks down at the floor. He's breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. Willing himself away from a panic attack. 

"Robert," Mycroft walks closer to his desk, "Robert."

As Robert looks up, Mycroft comes around the desk, leaning down on one knee. He resists the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, "Tell me, what has he said?"

Robert's breathing slowly returns to normal, "Mycroft, we don't know each other that well. I'd rather not-"

"Robert, please. What has he said?"

Robert hands the paper with the note attached to Mycroft. Mycroft, still on his knee, takes the paper and the note, reading them both slowly. The newspaper listed an anonymous source with a potential expose to come in the future with more details and names. They headline specifies that members of government have earned their titles by sleeping with one another to raise their ranks and stations, or to earn higher assignments. The note, in Magnussen's hand, specifies that more information, and specific names, will be placed in future papers. 

"There's no connection, Robert, between our departments. There's no proof that anything we do influences each other's career. We've gone to lunch once."

"Yes, but," He gets up and paces. Walking to the radio to turn it up a bit louder. He pulls out a notebook, grabs a pen. He gestures for Mycroft to come stand next to him by the radio, so they can stand up and lean on the bookshelf. He begins to write a note where Mycroft can read it.

_Keep talking. Along these same lines. I think my office is bugged._

Robert speaks again, "Samantha and Ramona both know I was talking about asking you quite a bit, that I've wanted to date you for a while." _That is true_ he writes. Robert says, "I'm afraid that if we continue to see each other, that they will feed information to Magnussen." He writes so Mycroft can see, _I don't think they have anything to do with Magnussen. I just think he's got a bug or another mole in the office._ "We can't see each other. My promotion is too important." He hands the pen and paper over to Mycroft. Robert makes a production out of sighing, and rearranging books on his bookshelf in a seeming fit of nerves. 

Mycroft writes. _Any ideas on the bug or the mole?_ Robert shakes his head, gesturing for Mycroft to speak. Mycroft coughs, "I don't think that this newspaper is about us. I don't want to stop seeing you." Mycroft writes _that is true_ then feels his cheeks turn pink. Robert takes the pen and paper back. 

_You're adorable when you blush_ Robert writes, but says "This is about us. It has to be. It was in the conference room seat where I always sit for our group meetings. I am up for a promotion, and others in the office have heard me talk about wanting to be ,with you. We can't do this." Robert writes _I know your security clearance is higher than mine. Can you check on this and get us somewhere safe we can talk?_

"I think you're making a mistake," Mycroft says, as he takes the pen and paper back from Robert, "We could get through this if we would work together," he writes _In two days Ingersoll's black car will pick you up for the conference. That you didn't want to attend. Instead, you will come to my country home and we will discuss?_

Robert takes the notepad and pen as he says "We need to stay apart," then writes, _Imagine me kissing you goodbye. I'll see you in two days._

Mycroft makes a show of stomping out for anyone listening, heart drumming in his ears, face flushed. He faces two women who start whispering to each other after seeing him sneak out of Roberts office. 

He's helped fuel the rumors of a daytime work tryst without any of the benefits.


	99. December 7th

Billy had lost sight of Mary; Sherlock had yelled at him for 10 minutes. He heard some new insults: "Moronic baboon with a haircut from sandpaper" was one he'd remember the rest of his life. Sherlock would've kept yelling; only he'd heard John in the background calming Sherlock down. 

His duty was now shifted to being sure members of the Network were driven out to Mummy and Daddy's village to keep an eye on them. He receives regular reports on their activities. 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were incredibly normal. They bickered, went shopping, read. No international intrigue like Mycroft. No dead body parts in the fridge like Sherlock. 

But they did remind Billy, when the two of them sat in their chairs in front of their fireplace, of John and Sherlock in their quiet moments. 

"Romantic," Billy mutters, pulling his coat tighter around himself. He rubs his right arm; it did seem to ache more often when the weather turned colder.


	100. December 8th

Mycroft makes sure that surveillance is double what it normally is on his way to pick up Robert. 

They hadn't spoken for two days, not since their mix of notes and talking in Robert's office, but they both needed time to work out how to proceed with Magnussen. 

He knew Robert was strong, and would push back against the scrutiny no matter what was written about him in the papers, but the feeling still left Mycroft feeling ill. He wanted to warn his brother away from Magnussen, to just make Magnussen disappear right now, but the plan had to follow through. Mary had to know Sherlock was fulfilling his bargain and killing Magnussen, and she was getting John. 

Magnussen would get to live for a few more weeks. 

The car slows down to pick up Robert at the end of his drive. He has a body guard. Robert pops the door open and looks in, the bodyguard carrying an overnight bag into the car. 

"Hello," Robert is startled, "I thought the car was just going to take me to your home?"

God. Mycroft smiles. A real, honest to god smile. He can't help it, "I thought we could talk some on the way to the house-"

Robert scoots closer. His bodyguard sits in the front seat, so they could sit on opposite sides if they wanted. 

"You missed me," Robert says playfully, knocking into Mycroft with his shoulder. 

Mycroft looks at Robert. He simply raises his eyebrow. 

"You did, you decided to pick me up yourself, rather than waiting for me?" He continues smiling at Mycroft; he feels Robert's warmth off of his leg. 

"Yes, that is probably true." Mycroft replies after a long pause, "You aren't worried?"

"No," Robert peers around Mycroft's shoulder to look at the scenery going by, "I see no need to worry. Won't change anything. I got to my position by my time spent appropriately dealing with bullies."

"That's all you think he is, a bully?"

"A larger scale bully, but yes. He makes up stories just close enough to the truth and earns money with threats."

Mycroft moves closer to Robert and looks in his eyes. Mycroft has always paid proper respect to those in authority, those who can take information and modify it. He realizes, deep down, he's worried for Robert. They've worked around each other, in the same office space, for years now, but he finds himself drawn to his insane optimism. 

"He's ruined careers and has the ear of most higher political figures in the world. He can do most anything to anyone he puts in his crosshairs."

"Mycroft," Robert says, chuckling, "How are you any less frightening than him? It sounds as if you've just described yourself."

"Is that why you're here with me? Protection?"

"Do I seem like I need protection?" Robert's hand twitches, reaches up, then puts it down back on his thigh. Mycroft links his own hands together. 

"No, you don't. But Magnussen is terrifying, more than anyone I've seen, even the bravest, falter when he attacks. He never kills with a weapon, but I've seen him destroy families, marriages, lives."

"I know what he's trying to do to you and your brother. I've been watching him, watching you two. Have been," Robert squeezes Mycroft's clenched hands, "You're not on your own. There are others who care. Who want to help."

Robert looks out past Mycroft again, watching the scenery go by. 

"This conference we're using as a cover, Mycroft," he states while keeping his eyes focused out the window, "We'll have to use our time wisely."

Mycroft looks at him, but Robert doesn't make eye contact. 

(What could he have meant by that?)


	101. December 9th

Jim calls Seb from a secure line off of the work site. He does his best to keep his voice even, to keep it from cracking. Seb can tell Jim is tired, worried, ready for this part to be over and for Mary to be gotten rid of. 

Even though he knows Mycroft and half the British government is listening, before he hangs up he says "Imagine I'm kissing you goodbye."

\---

Robert had slept in the guest bed. Mycroft had slept in his own bed. 

Well, sleep being a general term. More accurate would be laying in his bed willing himself not to go visit Robert in his bedroom. 

Sunlight is just beginning to streak through the tall, glass windows. Mycroft crosses the hallway opposite Robert's room. He hears soft snoring noises. 

In the kitchen Mycroft makes coffee and sits, watching birds at the bird feeders. He hears Robert's door open and he calls for him quietly. 

"Mycroft," Robert hisses, "What are you doing?" 

Mycroft stands up and peers back through the hallway. Robert is standing in the hallway. 

Completely naked. 

Mycroft drops his coffee. 

"For being a genius, you are an idiot sometimes. Get up here!" 

Mycroft skids through the spilled coffee, but makes it to Robert's bedroom, relatively unharmed, with only some light pink burns on his foot.


	102. December 10th

John waits near the door. Pacing. 

Sherlock has been gone with Billy for most of the past two days; Sherlock had been distracted, worrying about his parents, and John insisted he go visit to ease his mind. 

John spent the first night sleeping in their bed, waking every couple hours to look at his phone. He spent last night on the couch. He wanted to be nearer the ambient outside noise; Sherlock's bedroom was quiet without the sound of his detective's breathing in his ear. 

He recalls the first time meeting them. Sherlock had pushed them out of their flat so quickly he thought they were clients. 

They would be his in-laws. 

He'd only seen them once, and they didn't know they were betrothed. Everything was secret until Mary could be taken care of. 

John updates his pencil note under the wallpaper: "15 days until SH & JW can marry."

15 days. 15 to complete plans, finish construction on the fake façade, move in on taking care of Magnussen. He was kept fuzzy on the details of taking care of Mary, on purpose, but he knew the deadline was nearly the same. 

John hears the door downstairs creak open and Sherlock's feet on the steps. The moment Sherlock steps through the door, John grabs his sweatshirt, his hips, pulling them together. 

"Hello to you, too-" Sherlock begins to say, but John cuts him off with teeth nipping at his lips. John grinds his erection and hips against Sherlock's; stopping only long enough to pull Sherlock's sweatshirt and T-shirt off. 

John strips his pants, and goes to pull at the waistband of his lover's when Sherlock stops him with his fingers on his jaw, "John, John."

John realizes he's shaking. 

"John, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm here." Keeping his eyes on John, Sherlock strips the rest of the way, then laces their fingers together. John's desperate to pull Sherlock closer while he's pulling John to the bedroom. 

"Sherlock, please, fuck me," it comes out as a whine; he's grinding against his hipbone trying to reach Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock turns, looks down at him, pulling his chin up for another slow, sweet kiss. The more John pushes for friction, the slower Sherlock kisses back. He runs his fingers in small circles across John's shoulders. 

"John Hamish Watson," He kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his neck, his jawline. Sherlock draws John close to him so they are flush, chest to toes, Sherlock's lips pecking over John's neck. They've only made it as far as the doorway to the bedroom. "I love you, John, and I'm going to make love to you."

Sherlock sucks on John's neck for a moment; John runs his fingertips across Sherlock's back, his arms, his shoulders, "Jesus, Sherlock." He's breathing, pushing his hips back so he's not grinding into Sherlock as much as he wants to. 

"Come here, my love," Sherlock grabs John by the hips and leads him to the bed, laying him on his back. John watches Sherlock as he grabs the lube out of the bedside table. Sherlock's hair is a mess, he has scruff on his face from not shaving for a few days, and his nails are dirty. He looks absolutely sexy. 

John rises up to kiss Sherlock, and Sherlock gently pushes him down into the mattress. John bites his lip as Sherlock kisses and nips across his chest, his belly, his hip bones. He moves slowly; kissing, nipping, tasting. He looks up at John from under his long eyelashes before nuzzling into the crease between his groin and hip. 

"Christ, Sherlock, you're killing-"

Sherlock takes John into his mouth, continuing with the small, gentle touches. He swirls him gently in his mouth, letting the tip of his cock connect with his cheek. John gently pulls Sherlock's hair, rubbing his scalp. His breath becomes ragged, he feels himself near climax, when Sherlock lets go. 

Sherlock moves his hips close and their erections touch as he settles over him. With slicked fingers, Sherlock enters John, and fully lays on top of him so they can kiss and rub against each other while Sherlock opens him. 

"John, my love, look at me," Sherlock's nose bumps John's and they laugh, "I love you. I've missed you." They kiss, more sharply, as Sherlock presses in another finger. 

"Sherlock, please,"

With more kisses down his chest, Sherlock moves to raise John's hips and put a leg up over his shoulder. John feels everything stretch as Sherlock pulls his leg up and as he enters him. 

They don't speak, or move. John kisses Sherlock's jaw, pulling him close with fingers on the back of his neck. Sherlock continues to move slowly, so John wraps both legs around Sherlock's waist, forcing him in deeper. 

"John," Sherlock scolds, running his fingers through his hair. 

"I've missed you," John groans into Sherlock's mouth, "Now fuck me,"

Sherlock slows the pace as much as he can, but it's turned into a wrestling match. The more Sherlock pulls back for slower thrusts the harder John pushes with his legs. Sherlock relents, matching John's rhythm. As Sherlock breathes heavily, moaning John's name, John reaches back to grab the headboard for leverage. As Sherlock adjusts his hips, stroking John on each withdrawal, John wills himself to breathe out of his nose and mouth.

As Sherlock climaxes, John takes himself in hand, stroking himself until they're both spent. Covered in mess, Sherlock gives John a lazy kiss on the nose then rolls off the bed to get a flannel.

Half asleep, John feels Sherlock washing him off. Sherlock leaves the bed, then John feels the mattress sink when Sherlock returns. 

"Sweetheart," Sherlock says, shaking him awake, "You hurt your knuckles."

John sits up slightly. Sherlock is sitting, naked and cross legged, at his side. He's looking over John's bloodied and bruised knuckles. He then pats at them with antiseptic cream, giving each one a kiss. 

"How'd that happ'n?" John mumbles, laying back down. 

"When you grabbed the headboard, must have been, there's a little blood on the wall. You didn't notice when it happened?"

"No," John answers, arm over his eyes to block out the light, "I was a little preoccupied." He peeks out from under his arm to see Sherlock smiling.

"You don't have to look so smug about it," John smacks Sherlock with a pillow before rolling over to sleep.


	103. December 11th

Mycroft, since the age of 5, has not missed a school or work deadline. 

Over the past two days, he has spent the majority of it in bed. In the company of another person. He has barely checked his emails, only just caught a few phone calls, and scarcely eaten more than a few bites of toast and some pieces of fruit. 

He wakes up with a slight headache (oh, yes, he'd bumped the headboard last night a couple of times) and a grumbling stomach. Robert rolls towards him, his face pink and creased from the sheets. 

"Hello, gorgeous." Robert pushes up on his forearms to lay over Mycroft and kiss his mouth quickly, but soundly. 

Mycroft rubs Robert's coarse curls. They're too short to pull, or run his fingers through, but the texture feels lovely on his fingers and his palm, "You may have me confused with someone else." 

"Mycroft," Robert huffs, pulling himself up further. He crosses his arms, over Mycroft's stomach, and rests his chin on his hands. He looks up into Mycroft's face, "I am talking to _you_. I have exceptional taste in men. You, are amazing."

Mycroft sits up. Robert adjusts so he's propped by an elbow, splayed over Mycroft's thighs. His posture is relaxed, but he's poised to keep Mycroft from bolting. 

Mycroft sighs, reaches out to stroke the side of Robert's face, "Where did you come from?" His eyes are wide with wonder. 

Robert pats him on the thigh, grinning, "You know I don't know where I'm originally from, at least not for sure. You've read my file."

Mycroft stops touching Robert's face, puts his hand down on the bed. No way to deny it, "Are you upset?"

"No. Well, not for the reason you think." Robert takes the hand that was just touching his face, and kisses the palm. 

"Why?" Mycroft is confused; why so calmly angry?

Robert takes a deep breath, "It's clear you don't form attachments, or catch on when people have crushes or are flirting with you, and you refuse to believe compliments or terms of endearment. You're more apt to believe I'm distracting you from a big catastrophe than the honest truth that I've been crazy about you for months but that you were so distant because you were dating that Detective Inspector Gary-

Mycroft can't help the interruption, "Greg."

Robert rolls his eyes and continues, "Whatever his name. You're more shocked by me kissing you than you'd be by me up and leaving. You expect the worse of situations and people. I know you, Mycroft. I'm here. You won't find that out for sure in my file, or my transcripts, or kidnapping everyone I know and bribing them. You're going to have to be brave and do what the ordinary people do. Love me back if you can. And ask me yourself. You can tell if I'm lying."

Mycroft doesn't speak. Robert threads his fingers through Mycroft's. 

"There are gaps in my files about my birth family. Gaps about me and who I am. These gaps have everything to do with you, your brother, and why I'm so keen to help protect you and your brother from Magnussen. But these stories aren't in any files. You're going to have to trust me. Ask me. Before we run out of time."

Robert hops up from the bed before Mycroft can answer, and heads to the door, "I'm going to make coffee. I want you to take some time to think about us. I've lo-" Robert pauses, sighs, starts over, "I've watched you, for a long time now, and I need you to trust me. I've loved you for a lot longer than I let on. Your decision, by the end of the day. I won't pressure you. But we are on a deadline with Magnussen and I need to know where you are with us."

Mycroft can't breathe. Who is this man?

"I'm just going to tell you this, and then you need to ask me. Talk to me. Trust me. I'm your spy, Mycroft. My real title? My real jobs? That's not in my files. You can take that phrase, as being your spy, in a lot of different ways, and I mean them all. I report directly to Alex Younger. MI6. Almost your equal in every way. Almost," He winks before leaving the room, "But you are a bit more brilliant than I am."

He bounds down the stairs, yelling back as he goes, "Come down here when you've decided, darling, or kick me to the curb. Either way. Deadline is coming up."

Mycroft runs to the bedroom door, nearly slipping and falling on his ass (for fuck's sake, can he not walk upright around this man?) He yells to stop Robert before he gets to far off the stair landing, "How the hell do you know about the Magnussen deadline project?"

Robert turns around, crosses his arms, cocks his head, "I never date anyone seriously before reading their file, sweetheart. Not in my line of work. Your pressure point is your brother. I want to help you."

"Why?"

Robert just shakes his head, "You're going to have to come down here and talk to me, but, before you come down those stairs, you need to be sure. About us. Not some file. Not something you read or can weasel out of someone. Us. Do you know me? Do you trust me? Don't come down here until you know."

"Robert," Mycroft is at a loss. This is beyond, far beyond any negotiation he's every been through. Everything is, muddled. Confusing. Conflicting. He doesn't know what else to say, but, "Please come back to bed."

Puzzled for a moment, Robert wrinkles his brows, then finally answers, "You know I would love to. But I'm protecting my heart a bit. I need you to decide. Be sure. I'm sure about you, Mycroft. I trust you. I love you. I've already come _down these stairs_ because I've made my decision. You don't get to come down here until you've made yours. And you can't go back. I can't go back on my decision. I've already told you more than enough to show you. Be brave. You've got a brave heart, Mycroft, I see that. Put it to good use."

Robert walks away to the kitchen. 

Mycroft, listening to the domestic sounds of Robert digging into the cabinet for ground coffee, sits on the top step of the staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never put notes in, but I fucking love Robert. He's based on a couple real life people I put together. I can't wait for the other chapters about him.


	104. December 11th (mid morning)

Mycroft rubs his palms across his eyes. He's tired. Only awake for maybe an hour; he's as tired as he was the days leading up to Lazarus. 

He raises up off the top step, walks slowly into the kitchen. Robert is standing, looking out the back bay window. Robert doesn't turn around. Mycroft comes right up behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle. They are nearly the same height, so Mycroft rests his chin on his shoulder. 

"Robert, tell me. Tell me everything." Mycroft braces as Robert leans back into his embrace.


	105. December 12th

Mummy Holmes has taken it upon herself to check each door, each window before bed. She's seen a young man creep around her house near evening, and she's grown suspicious. 

This morning, she's reading the newspaper, tea at her fingertips. She hears a scrape near the window.

Moving quicker than a woman her age should, she runs outside, grabbing a pan as she goes. As she rounds the corner to locate the intruder, she sees a young man crouching. 

With perfect aim, she throws the pan, knocking it into his forehead. She moves up to him, grabs him tight by the collar. Dazed, he yelps, saying something about "being Sherlock's friend" and "only being there to help guard her."

She dials her younger son's number while holding the young man tightly in her other fist.


	106. December 12th (midmorning)

Mummy Holmes is fussing over the young man on her couch; he has a bag of ice on his forehead. Sherlock confirmed, over speakerphone, and cussing, that the young man was Billy. Billy insisted that he was Sherlock's protégé. Sherlock kept correcting him. Their argument was giving Mummy a headache, so she finally disconnected the call. 

"Young man," She clicked at him, sitting on the edge of the couch, "If an 80 year old woman was able to take you out with a pan, I don't know how much protection you really are. And I'm still not sure what I need protection from. It's best you get feeling better and get on your way."

Just then, Daddy Holmes tottered in. His hands were dirty from gardening. Used to all types of shenanigans from years of Mycroft and Sherlock, he didn't take a second look at his wife nursing someone on the couch. Billy sat up and began a rapid fire discussion the moment he caught glimpse of Daddy Holmes. 

"You, sir, were rescued from someone, or something…" Billy looks from one to the other, Daddy Holmes has now turned around, "a failing marriage? A boring life? And this woman, your wife, completely turned your life around. Your life is far different than what you expected it would be from thirty years ago, judging from all the photos-" He gestures to everything he can see, on the wall, on the mantles, "from all those years ago, compared to now. In the office of yours, sir, I can imagine you before, and you after. She's rescued you from something, and saved your life."

Mummy and Daddy Holmes look at one another, then back at Billy. In her quietest, motherly voice, "Well, sit back down young man, perhaps you can stay a bit longer."


	107. December 13th (morning)

Robert and Mycroft sit in the back seat of the black car. They are holding hands, sitting close, thighs warmly pressed close. 

Robert touches Mycroft's knee to get his attention, "A week from today, I want you to come to my home for the weekend. To finalize everything."

"I can. For some of it. Not the whole weekend. The 21st I have to see Sherlock and John for a bit. I'm bringing them food and reviewing the final plan since they'll be holed up for a few days before coming to Mummy and Daddy's house." Mycroft finds himself alternating between rambling and tongue tied while touching Robert. Will he ever get used to this?

"Do they know about Sherlock and John? Your parents?"

"No. I mean, they haven't said, but Mummy may know. She's like Sherlock and I."

"Gorgeous?" Robert playfully rubs Mycroft's wrist, his knuckles. 

"Please don't talk about my brother like that around me."

Robert turns so he's looking at Mycroft's face, into his eyes, "Take the damn compliment."

"Ok." 

"It will be difficult acting like we are less than what we are to one another. But in one week. We've got to finalize my role."

"I don't want you to be in danger." (God, where was this coming from? Fear. Protection.)

"Sherlock is family. I'll do whatever it takes to keep him out of the sights of Mary. Magnussen." Robert pauses to look out the window again, "Taking care of these problems will be my privilege. My file, Mycroft. It's half empty. There are skills I have that you and Sherlock don't have. I will take the responsibility. Trust me. Assassins took out my biological family and Magnussen has haunted my adoptive one. Hinting at child trafficking; purchasing babies for adoption. Now, he's threatening those I love."

(Love. What a word. Where did this feeling, this word, spring from.)

Mycroft runs his fingers over Robert's short, brown curls. He's never been tactile, but he can't stop touching him, "Christmas day? You'll take the brunt of Christmas Day?"

"Yes, I need to merge with the Spanish team for drills. I'm going to take a leave from work until this is over-" 

"I've always been alone," Robert looks at him, unsure in the abrupt change of subject. Mycroft says softly, "I've never had a friend who understands me. Sherlock has been the closest. A confidant. But you, you amaze me. I thought this entire plan was mine. Didn't expect you to jump in with me." 

Robert pulls Mycroft close. Looking into his eyes, he says, "You are not alone," and they snog each other breathless until they arrive at the office. Working under the cover of attending a conference together, it's not unusual for them to share a car. 

Before exciting to the curb, they do double check their clothes are in good order.


	108. December 13th (late at night)

Mycroft calls Mummy. 

"Hello," she answers, half asleep. 

"Hi Mummy, it's Mycroft."

"Hello, Myc. What's wrong, sweetheart?"

He feels like weeping, yelling, jumping. He's been debating this call all day, but he determined it had to be done. 

(I've met someone, Mummy, but there's so much more to tell you. I love him and I'm terrified.) 

"Can I come see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, yes love. I'm worried. Are you alright?"

"I will be, Mummy. I just. We need to talk. I'll come right away in the morning."


	109. December 14th

Mummy Holmes has put Billy to work. She decides, if he's part of her protection, she will keep him near and busy. She is quite used to dealing with young boys with too much energy for their own good. He's scrubbed the windows, helped put up the last of the very tall Christmas decorations, and even reorganized the baking pantry. She sends him to the back of the house when Mycroft arrives so they can have some privacy. 

When Mycroft arrives he expects to sit down to a cup of tea and a serious, tear filled chat about John and Sherlock and Mary and John's marriage falling apart. (Mycroft conveniently leaves out the part that Mary was the one who shot Sherlock.) He doesn't know why he's rambling on about John and Sherlock. 

"Oh, Myc, I knew that. I knew John and Sherlock loved one another. I hate myself, but I'd hoped Mary was just a phase. After John was attacked in that bonfire. Even in the midst of him getting married. Coming in his flat and he shoved us out so fast. He practically screamed 'Mummy, get out, I've got a boy over.' He thinks he's clever."

"He _is_ clever," Daddy says. 

Mummy pats his cheek gently, "Yes, sweetheart, but never with the boys. He's tended to ignore his heart. Both boys do."

Mummy, Daddy, and Mycroft are quiet. Billy is in the backroom sweeping. Mycroft coughs, begins to speak, then has to start again. 

"You've told us about Sherlock, do we need to call Sherlock to get details about you?" Mummy teases. 

"No, no. Sherlock hasn't seen me. Since this happened. It's been rather fast. Robert. He's a coworker, but there is a lot going on. He's paid attention to me, but it's been very quick since we got together. And, I'm so scared. Mummy, he loves me, but he loves _us_ too."

"How, sweetheart? What do you mean?"

"Robert, he'd been stationed, as a spy, from the Czech Republic, and he became friends with Roderick. He found him. His history checks out." Mummy and Daddy hold each other's hands, but do not speak. 

"He's going to help Sherlock and I with a project-"

(killing Mary and Magnussen)

"-and then extract Roderick with his connections. He's willing to die, Mummy, for us and I hardly know him-" Mycroft tries to hiccup breath, but he can't. He feels his face flush, his chest constrict. He's never felt this way in his life; he's terrified, remembering the pain from before, sad when they had to send Roderick away, holding Sherlock while he wailed over Redbeard, surely, but this is too much. 

"Breathe, Mycroft. Breathe, my love." Mummy is rubbing his shoulders, and he's reminded of when he was twelve. He may die this time, "Myc, listen to me. You aren't responsible for your brothers' choices. You do everything you can."

"I know, Mummy, but Robert is making himself responsible. He's taking responsibility. Because….He knows Roderick…Well, I don't understand. Why he's willing to give so much."

"Myc," Daddy interjects, "You do understand. That's why you're so scared."


	110. December 15th (Just after midnight)

Major Sholto.

Sherlock had originally assumed (balance of probability) that John and Major Sholto had grown close as comrades in arms. Working in the battlefield- whether it be Afghanistan or London- creates fast and deep brotherly love. 

When John insisted that he would come to the wedding, even without an RSVP, Sherlock knew he was wrong. Sherlock hadn't wanted to see that they had been lovers. Sherlock's final hold on reality had been that John simply didn't love men. 

Watching John with Major Sholto at the wedding had killed him. 

_He just doesn't want me._   
_I wasn't the first. But I wasn't even one of them._

Then his heart stopped. In John's arms. And John couldn't watch Sherlock leave him again. And Sherlock understood John. 

John loved him. 

John _had_ loved him. 

They'd been dancing around it for years. 

Just as the Bond Air case, where everything had been dancing around them. All of the little cases he didn't want to take had clicked. Adding to one big case. 

_When you remove the impossible, however improbable, must be the truth._

Paper from the Czech Republic. 

Woman's handwriting. 

The consulting criminal. 

Boots on the ground. 

Mycroft being quiet. 

The Czech mission going so smoothly. 

Caring is not an advantage.


	111. December 15th (Mid morning)

Robert piles his documents from the safe into two files. He's getting everything in order, in case it doesn't work. He doesn't want any of the Holmes brothers to be in danger from documents being left out. 

He kept a diary (written in code) during his time chasing assassins in the Czech Republic. It purposely reads more like a story, so he sets that aside for Mycroft to keep. The code for the diary is hidden within his very battered copy of Three Pirates and the Griffin. He binds the diary and the book together. Mycroft will easily decipher it. It would take a linguistics team months to break it. 

Watching the guilt roll off of Mycroft's face when he explained his stories that weren't in his files was worth all the wounds, the pain, the silence of these years. Their lives, their missions, had been dancing around each other. Robert had known (of) Mycroft for a very long time, and had known his family. They'd been comrades in arms, fighting against a common enemy, for years, dancing around each other. 

All of their work, years of it, is coming together. From other sides of the world. 

Robert sits down with his diary one last time before he will turn it over to Mycroft. Years of his life, written down, documented. He's been circling around this outcome for years. An assassin partnered with a vicious business man who destroyed his life. Soon, this will be resolved. 

 

 

\---

_We'd been up all night, watching for the newest drop of fresh supplies and a new team member from London. Young man, rather than being sent to prison, he'll be our interpreter. For Queen and Country. I was on the night watch when he arrived. Arrogant, but scared, asshole will probably get us killed. Posh._

_He's good. Native sounding. Even though I'm originally Czech, adopted out as a baby, my language skills are rudimentary. My adoptive family taught me some words, bits and pieces. With his help, we've got her traced to a small village outside of Příbram. Roderick, our interpreter, is more than an interpreter. He's smart, able to act, can turn situations through his mind quicker than anyone I've ever seen._

_"Caring is not an advantage," He would say, whenever I wanted him to slow down, assess the cost of civilian life, "My brother told me that."_

_"Caring is the only advantage," I would tell him back, "And your brother is a fucking idiot. I'll tell him that to his face."_

_This was our newest game, Roderick and I. Dumb things my older brother tells me._

_"He says my younger brother and I will be swept away in the east wind,"_

_"Roderick, is that how the fuck you got here? Like Mary Poppins on an umbrella. On the east wind? God, what a fucking idiot," I hiss this at him in between tucking our rifles back between hiding from sniper fire. God, if I die while talking with Roderick about his idiotic older brother._

_"He does like umbrellas," Roderick giggles. He honest to god giggles._

_"What the fuck does liking umbrellas mean?" I run out from behind a pillar, slice someone's throat, then roll back over on the other side. With the enemy's blood still on my fingers, I ask, "Does he have a lot of umbrellas or something?"_

_"Oh, god. I think he invented the damn things."_

_Roderick is angry, a mess. Middle brother syndrome. Worried about his older brother, his younger brother, his parents; he has nightmares and talks about them at night, but won't discuss them during the day. We have spent days wandering the countryside, watching. Waiting. He taught me more of the language, I made him Vepřo-knedlo-zelo - it was hard finding all the dumpling ingredients while working but I did it. He looked happier than I'd seen him in all these months, when we were eating and laughing. In the next moments, we were ambushed. We lost two men. They were eating dumplings, then dead a few moments later. I couldn't help it, I just said, "This is your older brother's fault. Somehow." Roderick laughed, "Everything is."_

_Roderick is here, with us, as he says, because of "Sentiment." His older brother, a high ranking official in British Government, had enough influence to send him on a suicide mission, rather than having him executed. I asked him what he did that was so terrible to get him executed. Or, what he did to be punished by being sent to work with me. He laughed. He's only 28, but he acts like an old soul. He'll tell me when he's ready. Or he won't._

_The assassin, known here as Anadrin, got close to us. She shot at Roderick, hitting his arm. I thought about his brothers and I grabbed him, pulling him backwards out of another blow. I was hit myself. I woke up in a small hospital, Roderick sitting next to me. His brother, the British government, was next to him. They try to be angry, tough, but they'd been holding on to each other. Crying. The brother thanked me, asked if I would keep an eye on his brother, if I would continue to do so. He worries about him, constantly. He offered me money, when Roderick was away getting checked out. I laughed, told him he was an idiot._

_What good is money in the middle of a battle? I asked him about the east wind, and umbrellas. He honest to god said "Who told you?" before realizing that was the dumbest question ever asked. I told him, "You're an idiot. An idiot with an umbrella." Before the pain medication caused me to drift off. When I woke up, he was gone; he'd wandered to the other end of the room to take calls. I'd panicked when I thought he'd left the country._

_While recovering, Roderick tells me about their youngest brother, Sherlock. I finally get the oldest brother to tell me his name, Mycroft. I can't stop laughing. Mycroft, Roderick, and Sherlock. I laugh so hard my stitches from my shoulder nearly come out. Mycroft - or grumpy Mr. Government - is not amused._

_I agree to text Mycroft on secure lines to keep up with what is happening with Roderick. He tells me what is going on in England. Moriarty is causing problems with Sherlock. They've developed an insane plan, Sherlock faking his death. We have to stay here to follow the second in command. She's in charge of the eastern European network._

_The death has been faked. Roderick has been upset for Sherlock; he couldn't tell his boyfriend John, and John is near a breakdown. Sherlock crossed through this area. We helped Sherlock take out operatives. I had to stitch up Sherlock's back myself; in his delirium, he wouldn't let the doctor touch him because he didn't look like "his doctor." He let me do it because I was friends with Roderick and I didn't seem as incompetent. I spent an hour talking to Mycroft, well, yelling at him, really, about how his brothers were going to be the death of me, and the next time he needs something done here he better get his ass here in person._

_The assassin nearly killed me. Again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice. Well. We took out a group of her highest ranking operatives who were heading back to England to help Moriarty. She swiped across me I with her gun and I thought of my parents, then I thought of Mycroft Holmes. It struck me as odd. Roderick broke her kneecap as she fled. He saved my life._

_The assassin escaped back to England. We know her plans, exactly what she's up to. We can stop her from developing a relationship with a Dr. John Watson, but then we will reveal our tail on her. The Coventry Conundrum. If we show our hand that we've followed her all this time, she'll hide. She's going by the name Mary Morstan._

_Jesus, no wonder Roderick is so pissy. Dr. John Watson, Captain, formerly of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is **Sherlock's** John. Roderick, Mycroft and I spend an evening detailing out what we can tell Sherlock and what we can't. If he finds out about Mary, he'll lose heart. He may go on a murdering rampage. Roderick tells me that Sherlock and John never actually dated, but Sherlock has loved him for years. What a mess. Soap operas in the middle of espionage. Roderick is staying in the Czech Republic. I'm returning to England. _

_Mary shot Sherlock. Roderick asks me to keep an eye on Mycroft for him. Magnussen visited Sherlock in the hospital. The only thing keeping me from putting a bullet in between his eyes is Mycroft begging me to wait._

_I am working in the same office as Mycroft. We see each other. We don't talk about assassination attempts, governments toppling, or insane brothers. We discuss the weather, or tea. Jesus, it's tedious. We both wear ridiculous suits and don't recognize each other._

_Mycroft Holmes has asked for plains clothes servicemen to go into the Czech republic with them to take care of Moriarty. I am the only one ready who is used to decoding text messages, and I'm bored. John looks different than what I imagined. For being shorter, he commands a room. John's been shot in the shoulder, too. Sherlock, ever the bastard, beat us there and was chatting with Moriarty. I thought Captain Watson and Myc were going to kill him._

_As we got back in the chinook, Roderick asked me pass a message to his brothers. I almost clipped his ears for trying to talk to Captain Watson after he saw Sherlock talking with Moriarty. Dangerous, so I will take the heat if it goes wrong. Roderick's cover has always been he's my relation, not the Holmes brothers. Roderick has spent years in the field now, so he's brown, more like me, compared to his blood brothers._

_The official story is that Roderick Basil Holmes was killed in the line of duty for Queen and Country six months after being sent into the Czech Republic by his heartless brother Mycroft Holmes._

_Mycroft, smart man, has Moriarty. He has leverage in Seb, and a common enemy with the assassin known as Mary Morstan. Roderick would like the option to come home, even though he may not take it very often._

_Myc and I. We finally had lunch, even though neither of us were hungry. We've been dancing around this for years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go re-read Chapter 23


	112. December 16th

Roderick Holmes has a passport ready. Off the grid of the British government for years, officially deceased for two, he's ready to return home when Mycroft gives the order. Mycroft has done this resurrection game before. 

Moriarty is in hand; Magnussen will be disposed of. Roderick is leading a small band in the Czech Republic to be sure all the factions have been wiped clean. 

He's not sure how to feel about returning home after so many years away. 

He waits for further instructions.


	113. December 17th

Billy is forced to sit through video after video of Mycroft, Roderick, and Sherlock. He is squished on the couch in between the Holmes parents. 

Mummy Holmes is grinning, Daddy Holmes is weeping, "The last time they were together," he says, patting Billy's shoulder, "Is when Magnussen was threatening our family. He wanted to get to Mycroft, so he was going to pull everything about us into his papers. Mycroft's boyfriend, Sherlock's sociopath diagnosis, Roderick's affair with a woman 8 years older-"

"Oh, stop, don't rehash all that-" Mummy cries, her eyes still on the television. 

"He's your protection. He needs to know. Billy, you see, my sons love each other. Roderick killed one of Magnussen's editors, had to be sent away. Sherlock blamed himself for deducing the affair and setting everything in motion. It wasn't Sherlock's fault at all. It was mine-"

"Please. I've forgiven you," Mummy Holmes says, reaching across Billy's lap to pat Daddy Holmes on the knee. 

"Our sons. Goodness." Daddy Holmes rubs his eyes. They are currently watching a video of Sherlock and Roderick playing pirates, with a tied up Mycroft stuck on a tree. 

Billy lets Mummy and Daddy fuss over him for the evening. He knows it's because they're missing their children, but it still feels nice to be made to eat and find some nice hand me downs from the Holmes boys. 

He's definitely Sherlock's protégé now.


	114. December 18th

Sherlock is in the quiet before the storm. He texts Mycroft asking him on Sunday to please bring over a meal and the gift they discussed for John. Mycroft takes longer than normal to respond. 

Sherlock runs through the battle plans in his head. Mycroft has some last minute changes (not large ones) that he wants to go over on Sunday. Sherlock is almost positive that Mycroft wants someone else to be the one to shoot Magnussen. Sherlock will not allow that to happen. Magnussen has taken too much away from their family. It will be his hand, John's gun. No other outcome will be satisfactory. 

 

John is asleep on the couch. He'd been reading the paper, and he's splayed out, his stomach slowly rising and falling with his inhales. The paper rises and falls with his breath. Sherlock sits on the floor, beside the couch, and threads his fingers through John's. He sits on the floor, content to let most of the morning pass by, watching John sleep.


	115. December 18th, late afternoon

Robert knows the CCTV cameras are watching him, watching everyone, so he dresses in his absolute best suit, dressed like a groom. Boutonniere and everything; complete with a nervous gait. He's wearing a blonde wig, makeup to lighten his skin. 

He quite enjoys fooling his boyfriend. 

He walks into the jeweler's store. An unassuming store front. Full of treasures from times past. He has in his pocket some jewelry that Roderick had given him nearly a year ago. 

Robert acquired this jewelry when Roderick was going into a dangerous firefight and was unsure if he'd come out alive. Robert knew he would; he'd never seen a more determined soldier. He switched body armor with the kid. Robert had been given state of the art EnGarde and had traded it with the younger boy's less protective gear when he was taking a power sleep. 

Love, and war, and the Holmes brothers were all mixing together. They were in the middle of battle and firefights still, and more was to come, but he'd promised himself that if he made it out alive….. 

He stepped away from the jeweler counter fifty seven minutes after entering the door. The engraving, with the foreign language notation, took longer than usual. With a click of the bell, he came out into the dimmed sunlight, breathing in the London air. He patted his pocket, making a show for the cameras. 

 

After all, a disguise, no matter how hard you try, is really a self-portrait.


	116. December 19th

Robert is good on his word. 

Roderick takes three flights and a train into the English countryside. He zigzags; using various names to cross borders. He rendezvous a few miles outside Appledore with the Spanish contingent.

They run drills. Check on the construction of the fake façade being built by Moriarty. Run surveillance on Mary Morstan. 

6 days. Magnussen. Then Mary. 

He's not sure how to feel about his return to British soil. The family reunion will need to wait. 

Robert texts him, asking him for confirmation of his blessing and a bit of good luck.


	117. December 20th

They sit, on Robert's couch, nearly in each other's laps. 

Robert pulls Mycroft's left hand to his fingers, and kisses every knuckle, "I'll be safe. Birth family will be in the Czech Republic. If the government sends me away as a rogue operative, I'll have my protection, and come back soon. But, I won't go without you as my husband. Marry me. I'll come back to you. This plate has our first official date and a message for you, since we can't have rings," Robert pulls out a necklace out of his pocket. It's thick, silver, with a plate on it: 

_"Druhého prosince ti patřilo mé srdce"_

_My heart was yours December 2nd._

Mycroft weeps as he places it around his neck, "yes," 

"Who will marry us? We need to get it completed right away?"

"I hold a minor post in British government," Mycroft says, smiling through tears, "I do believe I can have our marriage processed by tonight."

"Robert Holmes," He announces, kissing Mycroft deeply, nipping at his lips, "I'm sentimental. Traditional. I'll take your name."

They melt into each other's arms, kissing and smiling. Robert strokes Mycroft's cheek, his ribs. They slowly strip one another, moving to lay down in front of the fire. 

After they make love, both of them naked except for Myc's new jewelry, Robert explains where the necklace came from.


	118. December 21st Midday

Sherlock has spent all day writing, typing, editing. Mycroft is on his way over to the flat with some food and movies for John (Sherlock hopes he's happily surprised.) John is still asleep in their bed. They'd spent most of last night wrapped around each other, facing each other under the blankets. 

John had remarked that "It's lovely to have a sleepover with one's best friend."

Last night Sherlock hadn't quite understood what John meant (sometimes the simple gestures go over his head) but he smiles now, running his fingers over his lips. They're best friends, lovers, betrothed; it's just as lovely to passionately make love with John as it is to giggle with him or it is to hold him and talk to him at night about serious and silly matters alike. 

He hears Mycroft coming up the stairs tapping his umbrella on the way. He walks in carrying a chicken dish in a casserole pan. Mycroft's eyes are red rimmed, flour on his sleeve, clothes in disarray....

"Mycroft!" Sherlock hisses, "Oh my God! You didn't go home last night, you were with--"

Mycroft sets the casserole down on the counter, turning to face Sherlock, "Sherlock, please-"

"You didn't make that casserole. Someone else made it-" Sherlock's voice is raising in volume. Mycroft walks over to Sherlock, searching his face, "Please, Sherlock. Stop."

"Oh my god!" Sherlock yelps, clapping his hands in front of his face. He's biting his cheek. Mycroft's face is pink. 

Sherlock sucks in a breath when John stomps into the living room. He's completely naked and he has marks on his face from the wrinkles in his pillow and sheets. His hair is sticking up at all angles. 

"What are you two on about? Are you both ok?"

Mycroft's back is to John. He mouths one word, _please_ , to Sherlock. Sherlock opens his mouth, eyes on Mycroft, then shuts his mouth when he looks back at John. 

"Nothing, John, I'm sorry. Mycroft surprised me is all. I'm sorry we woke you."

John mutters and goes into the bathroom. Sherlock looks back at Mycroft, whose face is scrunched and eyes slightly watery. Mycroft lets out a breath he was holding. They watch each other, silently, for a few moments; evaluating one another. 

They break eye contact when Mycroft walks over to the smiley face on the wall, "Your wallpaper is peeling here, brother mine, you may want to take a look at it."


	119. December 22nd 3:57 am

Sherlock is standing in front of the double large windows, composing a waltz. 

As John listens, he's tempted to ask why, but he knows better than to disturb him. His hips are swaying and his eyes are closed. There is a light floating of snow outside the windows. 

John sits in his chair. From this angle, he can see even a larger chunk of the wallpaper under the smiley face has been turned up. He goes to the wallpaper for a closer inspection. 

Near the space where John had been marking his countdown, above it, in Sherlock's sprawling print, is written _You've had my heart since Jan 29._

Sherlock had written in red ink.


	120. December 23rd 2:23pm

The Spanish police force and helicopter arrive on a landing pad outside of an empty car park near the Holmes' parents home. They begin running plans and counter plans. The layout of Appledore is reviewed again. Scenarios are ran if they have to use a sniper through the glass windows, or if they have to come in under cover of full nightfall. 

As they meet on the landing pad, Roderick and Robert embrace, then burst into giggles and tears when Robert calls Roderick "brother-in-law."

"You're the only one who knows," Robert explains, Roderick pulled close, Roberts fingers on the back of Roderick's neck, "Just in case, I wanted him to be next of kin."

"There will be no just in case," Roderick grins. He's got a slim nose like Mycroft, but with his dark coloring, he looks unlike Sherlock. He's his own creature. 

The police force and helicopter pilot are all staying in a small inn under the guise they are acting in an episode of a new BBC crime drama. An exec at BBC Three has agreed to tweet behind the scenes photos to add to the authenticity. 

"I'm going to shoot him. When given the chance. No more Holmes brothers sent away. Your parents all need you home-"

Roderick interrupts, "My parents don't know yet. In case something goes wrong. I'd rather have them believing I'm still running around Europe somewhere."

"Roderick," Robert pulls him in for another close embrace, "There is no _just in case._ There is dealing with our problem. Our _family_ problem, then a reunion."

"Ok," Roderick smiles, "ok, brother mine."


	121. December 24th 12:03am

John sits in the quiet of St. Edwards church. He has Valium in his pocket tucked next to his gun. (He had Sherlock run chemistry analysis on it; they had giggled at the idea of conquering everything only to have John succumb to a poison plot like _A Study in Pink_ )

The church is comforting.Years ago, he'd been shot on the steps of an Afghan church. Staring hazily into the smoking sky, his own blood pooling out, rolling down the steps and into the cooling sand, he thanked the Universe that it gave him something beautiful to gaze at while he passed away. In the shadow of a potentially dangerous firefight, a church was his preferred sanctuary. 

Sherlock declined John's offer to attend a midnight church service. John however wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had followed him and was waiting outside the entrance, or had driven his parent's spare car to keep an eye on him. Sherlock had been cuddly, possessive, quiet. He was beginning to apply makeup and circle into his "dying detective" routine for Mary. 

John drove his car down the small paved road, then to the gravel road back to the Holmes' quaint cottage. These normal, comforting, darling parents that lived in this quiet home would be his in-laws. 

As he side stepped into the door, he held his breath so he could hear more clearly. The home was asleep, except for Billy. He'd been keeping watch alternating with Sherlock, John, Mycroft. Sherlock's parents had immediately given John and Sherlock rooms that connecting with an adjoining door. 

As Billy watches him from his kitchen perch, John moves in front of the mantle and looks at photos. He expects to see photos of Mycroft and Sherlock with their parents. 

The photos were fastidiously lined up on the mantle, in order of age. Up until Mycroft and Sherlock were in their teens, there were three boys in the photos. The boy he'd never seen before had Mycroft's sharp nose. 

"Jesus Christ," John exhales, moving backwards to sit on the couch. He jumps, his eyes adjusting to the dark; Sherlock had been sitting keeping watch in a chair near the window. Sherlock moves over to him, sitting on John's lap, overlapping kisses from his neck up his jawline. 

"I'll tell you later," Sherlock ghosts against John's ear, "Let's get a few hours sleep before tomorrow."

John pulls back, petting Sherlock's curls back from his forehead, "Ok. The armor packed?" 

"So damn romantic, yes," Sherlock grins, looping fingers behind John's neck to draw in for a sweet, deep kiss. He pulls back when he hears Billy huffing in the kitchen in annoyance. 

John whispers in Sherlock's ear, "I can't wait to be your husband. We are going to take a month long, uninterrupted sex holiday."

Even in the very dim light, John sees Sherlock's ears and chest turn pink.


	122. December 25th Right Before Sunrise

John watches out the window, in his pajamas, sipping a half cold, black cup of coffee. 

John realizes the morbidity of it; the countdown to joy, and the countdown to the end of a life. As the sky slowly turns from dark blue, to light blue, to pink, John remembers something Mary said to them, all those months ago. During their thunderous discussion of her past (present) as an assassin. 

"That's why there are people like me. To kill people like him." 

Indeed. 

Mary is in a spare bedroom, Mycroft and Sherlock are sharing one, Billy is floating around. 

John takes his half Valium. He's always been a terrible liar. 

He knows Mycroft and Sherlock will end up smoking. While wearing some patches. Adds to the pallor. 

He's prepared his speech. "The problems of your future are my privilege." She will know it's prepared, he will tell her so. 

Beyond that, Billy is taking care of a distraction for later. Then they're off. 

He hadn't written in his blog for months.


	123. December 25th Breakfast

John is sitting at the breakfast table. He is dressed, making himself eat toast and jam. A knot, that will not leave, is in the center of his stomach. The Valium is taking the edge off his nerves. He was sure to leave the bottle in the bathroom that Mary uses. Any jitters, anxiety, weird speech can be attributed to the Valium. Rightly so, she will assume he is off his faculties because of the drug, and will not assume he is lying or evasive. 

He watches Mummy Holmes (can he call her Mummy?) puttering in the kitchen, getting food ready for the evening meal. A shiver runs down his spine. Will they make it to evening?


	124. December 25th Mid Morning

Sherlock feels like it's been Christmas Day forever. 

He's avoided Mary who has stayed in the living room reading. When she does move, she makes a large production of getting in and out of chairs with her large belly. 

They ate breakfast and have snacked in uncomfortable silence. His father keeps giving him strange looks across the table. 

His father has always been able to read him clearly, so he spends time making sure he's always near Mycroft to avoid one on one conversation.

In the hallway, in a stolen moment, he gives John a hard kiss. He doesn't want to regret anything.


	125. December 25th, 2002. United Kingdom

Sebastian Wilkes is sitting in a dorm room with the _freak_ who is even more annoying than usual. Sebastian's parents' flight is late and Sherlock mentioned his brother and parents had to leave the country suddenly. 

The freak is on a rampage; deducing Sebastian, doing his party trick on everyone's items left in the dorms, shaking while he downs a tumbler of whiskey. Sebastian is more patient without others present. 

Sherlock's middle brother has been sent away and may not come back. 

He watches Sherlock go out, and come back hours later. Obviously well fucked and high as a kite. Sebastian tries to talk him through it. Offers coffee, suggests a cold shower. Sherlock rejects it all. 

They go their separate ways once their parents arrive on December 26th. 

Sebastian chooses rugby and girls. 

Sherlock chooses cocaine and being alone.


	126. December 25th, 2002. King Hussein Medical Center, Jordan.

"Jesus, what a way to spend Christmas," Lieutenant Watson huffs as he surveys the five young Jordan civilians who were transferred in. They all have burns. One is less visible than the others; all on his legs. 

"We could be in Afghanistan, sir," the attending huffs, gathering supplies. 

As they work, one of the men stays completely quiet. They work, tirelessly into the midnight hours. The one Jordanian has a distinctive nose, but is so covered with soot and other bits of shrapnel he can't tell him from anyone else. 

A religious radical attempts to blow up the hospital with a suicide bomb. 

Dr. Watson shoots him between the eyes with his service weapon. Shortly after, he's promoted to Captain. 

The young, British man, disguised as a Jordanian, slips out unnoticed in the chaos.


	127. December 25th 2:22pm

Drugging. Billy had resorted to drugging. Of course, Sherlock's protégé would also be an expert chemist. 

The speech to Mary was complete. She heard what she needed to hear, and seemed to believe him. He was glad the vest had a back protectant so if she did decide to stab him in the back. 

Sherlock is grinning maniacally outside his parent's home, "It's Christmas, John." They were facing their greatest enemy, their greatest foe. But they were together in the fight. Weaponry was just John's gun, but Sherlock assured him, without detail, that there would be backup involved. 

John sat next to Sherlock in the helicopter, and held his hand, only letting go when they had to open the helicopter doors. 

Appledore.


	128. December 25th 2:32pm

Mycroft texts Robert after he's laid his head on the table for a few moments and he's sure Mary isn't waking up. He didn't consider that they could have just over drugged her here, using a tasteless, colorless, untraceable poison. He imagines they skipped that plan as that would have incriminated his parents. 

He just texts one word "Icarus" . Robert texts back "intact." 

Robert and Roderick load their gear, rifles, themselves onto the helicopter to collect Mycroft. Roderick is in full riot gear, tucked in the back of the helicopter, no one will see him through the dark glass, even if they do wake up. 

No need to shock Mummy and Daddy yet. 

They know that Billy will keep an eye on Mary as she is left with Mummy and Daddy Holmes. Robert squeezes Mycroft's shoulder as he helps him jump through the door, under the swirling winds of the copter blades. They nod sharply, no words, ear pieces in. Mycroft settles into the edge of the front seat. The flight over is tense, Robert has to remind Mycroft to breathe. 

They imagine that Sherlock will be chatting with Magnussen, attempting to pull information or paperwork out of him, working through blackmail. Robert is to jump out of the helicopter and shoot Magnussen, but with Sherlock there they can give credibility and information to Mary that Sherlock is actually the one that shot him. John will be safe, for a day, for the last day of her life, if she believes Sherlock fulfilled her demands. 

They've run every eventuality - storming the house, pulling them out, shooting all the guards in the house. 

John and Sherlock are in their bullet proof vests. Robert, Mycroft and Roderick all know that John and Sherlock would rather die together than one live and the other perish, so it took Mycroft physically snapping them on the two men. 


	129. December 25th 4:24pm

Sherlock is shocked by the lack of real documents in the basement of Appledore. 

Sherlock is angry. 

Sherlock is ill at John being hit. 

Sherlock is supposed to wait for Robert, Mycroft's operative, to shoot Magnussen.

Sherlock never intended to wait; a Holmes brother would always be the one to put a bullet in Magnussen's skull. 

Sherlock shoots before the operatives hit the ground off the helicopter.


	130. December 25th 4:25pm

Robert is screaming into Myc's headset, "What the fuck, Myc, did your brother just blow Magnussen's head off?"

Robert commands everyone to stand down in their headsets. Mycroft yells through the helicopter speakers in case they don't hear Robert. 

Roderick, trying to be funny, "For fucks sake, we _finally_ get his dumb ass back here now we've got to send him away."

With all the chatter and yelling in his headset, Mycroft has to slowly pull it off his ears for some quiet, some respite, "Oh, Sherlock, what have you done."

Robert had given so much, and would have been sent away, but been safe. He would have returned. 

Sherlock would not go to prison. There would be riots. He could get Queen and Country to agree to an exile. He wouldn't last six months. 

Mycroft stares, at his baby brother, tears running down his face, curls long enough to cover his neck. He looks just like when he was eight. 

He'd always been stupid. Brave, in love, wonderfully stupid. 

Robert cracks back in, "Mycroft, what's the plan?"

Silence. 

"Mycroft?"

He's sitting, the headset in his lap, staring at his baby brother. Staring the love of his brother's life. They've got their hands in the air, Sherlock looking down, John looking at Sherlock. A major cock up.

Mycroft can't speak. John's face- he may pass out. Mycroft may fall forward from the shock of looking at John - the face from Reichenbach Falls. 

Robert takes over the rest of the operation and locks everything down. 


	131. December 25th 4:32pm

John doesn't understand. 

It wasn't supposed to be Sherlock. He wasn't let in on all the plans, but with the yelling, and the spotlights, it wasn't supposed to be like that.

It wasn't supposed to be Sherlock that shot him. 

Men come up to them with zip ties. Sherlock doesn't fight; the operative handling Sherlock allows him to look back at John after he talks about Mary being safe. Mary? Who the fuck cares about Mary. Is that a code for something?

Something clicks in his mind that nearly brings him to his knees. The man, a few years younger than him, zip tying his wrists. He's seen him. His ghost, he called him. Holding his bleeding shoulder in Helmand. Photos. Who is this - 

"John, this is my-"

Sherlock is pushed, is turned back around, arms grasped by an operative. John imagines this must be all for show, a soundless video for Mary. 

He would fall down if the other operative weren't nearly carrying him.


	132. December 26th Late Afternoon

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That's all of it, if you're looking for baby names." 

Sherlock's full name. 

Everything is ready. 

The video plays in the car; as predicted, Mary says, "But Moriarty is dead," (Pause) "But, you told me he was dead." She still believes he's gone, that he's been neutralized. 

The call between Mycroft and Sherlock. In case anyone is listening. 

The ghost again, standing outside the car near Mary and Mycroft. He hasn't had a moment alone with Sherlock to ask, a moment where they might not be overheard. 

Sherlock's full name. 

They are going to the house, the façade. Operatives in place. 

"An East Wind is coming," John zips his coat. (It's coming to get you), "Let's head home. This is something that Mycroft and Sherlock need to deal with."

Still with the bullet proof vest on the way to their (supposed) house. Everything a façade, an act. John doesn't have his gun on him. The guns will be ready and poised in the slits in the walls. Professionals. 

What would she do differently if she knew today was the day she was going to die? Would she regret? 

She adjusts her (fake) belly as she gets into one of Mycroft's many sleek, black cars. She doesn't speak, looking at the country side as they drive past.

"Hey," Just at the right time, so she doesn't look outside while they're pulling up to their new house, "Sherlock said that his name is a girl's name. We should name our baby after him." 

She has a blank look on her face, the she scrunches up her eyebrows. 

"Well," She licks her lips, "Then there would be a Sherlock Watson in the world." 

John just smiles, then goes over to the car door to open it for her, in a fake gesture of helping her out of the door with her large belly, to guide her to the door of the house to block her view of any line of sight. Operatives on the roof, ready, the moment they walk in the door. He takes a moment to check and see if there are any weapons on her. 

She seems clean, no bulges in the back of her pants or her coat. 

He wonders if she would change anything if she knew today was her last day alive. 

Sherlock and Mycroft will be approaching behind with an operative. Five.


	133. December 26th Early Evening

They enter the room that is not their house, but an exact replica. Mary notices the slits in the corners, perfect for sniper rifles to push through. John hears Sherlock and Mycroft enter behind them to pull John back so the snipers have a clear shot. 

Shots with silencers. 

It's quick, efficient, but Mary grabs at Mycroft at the last second. A bullet hits his leg when she turns him. 

Sherlock drops to Mycroft's side when he collapses. His pant leg is soaking red. 

It was worth it, in a morbid way, John thinks, to finally see all those layers removed. Sherlock's eyes watering and lip trembling, "Mycroft, please, tell me you're not hurt."

"It's just a scratch, Sherlock, not fatal." 

Sherlock's voice is absolutely thunderous. He is yelling to the corners where the snipers were positioned, "You are lucky Mycroft Holmes is not more harmed. If he had been mortally wounded, none of you would have left this room alive!"

John feels like giggling. He reigns it in. 

His murderous, assassin, lying wife is lying dead on the floor. 

But he can't help feeling happier than he has in years. 

A man, dark skinned, curly haired, runs in the door. Sniper. Gear around his waist; he was grappling on the ceiling. He drops to Mycroft's side. 

"Here, I'll put pressure on it. Are you all right? Roderick is right behind us."

Tenderness. Mycroft reaches up to touch his face, "Yes, I'm fine, you and Sherlock, fussing."

Sherlock breaks the silence, "This, _this_ is your boyfriend? An assassin spy? A Czech assassin spy?"

"Boyfriend, no," Mycroft smiles, a little sleepy; pain from the shot, "My husband, Robert Holmes."

"Oh for fuck's sake. Mycroft gets married before Sherlock and I?" 

The room is quiet. Sherlock breaks the silence, "A bit not good, John."

"Sorry, I'm so sorry." He grabs Sherlock's hand, watching Robert work intently on Mycroft's leg, while whispering words of comfort. 

The door bursts open; Roderick (presumably) and the crew with stretchers. One for Mary, another for Mycroft. They are both loaded up. Mary, covered with a sheet. 

Roderick stares at John. Sherlock grabs at John, holding him, "John, now is not the time, my love. Soon. You saw the photos. You've seen him before. Now is not the time." 

John surprises himself. The tears drop down his face, just large drops down his face, breathing in deeply, but as slowly as he can. He married and loved the woman on the stretcher, under the sheet. Was going to have a family with her. That part was over a long time ago, those dreams, but now it's final. She's gone. The plan is completed. 

0 days until JW and SW can get married.


	134. December 27th 10:49pm

Seb and Moriarty are deported with the understanding that if they return to the UK they will be executed. 

With what they have seen, they do not doubt the resolve of any of the Holmes brothers. 

\-----

Roderick, Mycroft, and Sherlock go to Mummy and Daddy's house on their own, just the three of them. Mycroft is using a cane to walk, and holds onto Sherlock's arm. Daddy responds with a squeal of joy. Mummy grabs Roderick's ear and shrieks, "If any of my boys fake their death, or leave us, or pull any other stunts of this nature, I will turn absolutely monstrous." 

The introduction to the spouse and the planning of a wedding will need to wait for another day.


	135. January 29th

The caterer clinks on a glass, "And pray silence for the best man,"

Roderick gets up from his seat, and puts his hand on John's shoulder. John is dressed in his military uniform, Sherlock is dressed in a new, smart suit with a deep purple shirt that almost shimmers, and the rest of the guests are in casual winter jumpers. The grooms are absolutely incandescent, and everyone is more relaxed than they can remember being in years. 

"You saved my life," Roderick says, in a deep voice like Sherlock's, which always startles John. He looks at him, to see the difference; a nose and face more similar to Mycroft, "I was exiled for trying to execute Magnussen for blackmailing my family. I was in Jordan, two months in, I would have died," Roderick keeps his glass of champagne in the air, grinning now, "I followed military squadrons to Helmand as they were most heavily covered by the press. I met Captain Watson there again, helped cover the squadron when he took a bullet to the shoulder. Coincidence? The Universe is rarely so lazy. I followed you. Made sure you came back alive." 

At this, Sherlock sniffles, John puts his arm around his shoulders. 

Roderick continues, "John, I wanted you to have protection and help when you returned to the UK. I convinced Mrs. Hudson to raise the rent to force Sherlock to consider a roommate, and asked Mike, an old friend from Bart's, to run into you sometime for an introduction." 

John sucks in his breath, stares at Sherlock, then back to Roderick, and around the room. 

"Oh, Captain Watson. You know my brother's methods. Love, and friendship, at that time, were not his area. But the decision, Captain John Watson, was fully yours. I just hoped to point you two in the right direction, as I recognized you had the qualities, and the spirit, that we desperately knew he needed. I dared hope you would save my brother's life as you did mine. To John Watson, whom we all love dearly as our brother, who is our brother fully." 

Cries of "Here, here!" and claps on Mike Stamford's back, "Congratulations, Cupid!" punctuate the raising of the glasses to Sherlock and John's full kiss. 

Love has been a vicious motivator.


End file.
